The Replacement Clerk
by rosiesbar
Summary: After Radar receives a six day pass for winning 'Soldier of the Month', a replacement clerk is sent on temporary assignment to the MASH 4077th from a hospital in Tokyo. The clerk - Sergeant Steve Rogers of the 121st Evac - catches the eye of Dr. Hawkeye Pierce, who immediately sets about trying to catch Steve's eye in return. Badly. Slashy angst/fluff. No smut. Death mention.
1. Day 1

**Author's notes:** _This is a MASH/Captain America crossover, set in the MASH universe, for which I have... 'borrowed' Steve Rogers. This is a world where Steve never got the super-serum and only managed to sneak into the army by bribing a doctor. The events of "Captain America: The First Avenger" did not take place. So, no Marvel stuff as such, but I have tried to fill the fic with little Easter eggs for you all! It's now the early 1950s and Steve is a regular guy who works as an army clerk, and has risen to the rank of Sergeant._

 _MASH fans: The majority of the story is set during the unseen period of 'Soldier of the Month' while Radar is away enjoying a six day pass in Tokyo._

 _Marvel/Avengers fans: Clint Barton does not feature in this story. My apologies for any confusion caused._

* * *

 **Day 1**

He steps out of the Jeep and I feel like someone just dropped a concrete block right into my gut.

This is a new one for the books, I'm sure of it. With Margie it was butterflies. With Schneider it was a firecracker. And with Trapper… well, that was more like somebody spent the winter rubbing a couple of sticks together somewhere in my boots, the resulting heat slowly rising until, by springtime, my belly had got the hint.

This time, it would appear, we've skipped the subtle hints and moved straight to telegraphing using my central nervous system as the wire. Damn my enthusiastic-if-exceedingly-tasteful libido!

He's diminutive in height, just like his predecessor – barely comes up to my chin, in fact – but unlike Radar he's got a look of sophistication about him. He's older than he looks at first glance, or at least I _hope_ he is. Cool blue eyes, piercing even. They're the thing that give away his age – just the tiniest hint of lines around the corners, quite distinguished, as if he's got them after many years of studying the world a little too thoughtfully in a dim light. Aside from that, he's positively boyish: strawberry blonde hair, and a defined, pointed face that on someone larger and more athletic might be considered chiselled. People don't describe guys like this as chiselled. Guys like this tend to go unnoticed, but I'm noticing alright.

And I'm… oh, I'm being talked at, too.

"… new company clerk, standing in for Radar while the lucky fella lives it up in Tokyo. Sergeant, these are two of our top notch surgeons, Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt."

I tune back in just in time to catch the tail end of Colonel Potter's introduction, and the beginning of BJ's as he leans in and pumps the hand of our newest recruit. "Hey, what do you know? Radar's replacement is Radar-sized!"

"I guess they run clerks up on the small side so they fit better in the filing cabinets." The quip escapes me before I can stop myself, and I immediately regret it. There's an awkward silence, and the young man's face drops a little. "Uh, please… pay no attention to us. You stick around this place for too long, the taste of the food rubs off on your sense of humour. But don't let that bother you. Underneath the bad jokes and the mud and the parasites, we're really just a bunch of good, honest jerks."

My comment draws something resembling a smile, maybe from a distance, if you squinted at it upside down through Radar's dirty glasses – in fact, I'm tempted to say it was more of a grimace – but he doesn't speak. And so, inevitably, I'm compelled to fill the gap in conversation with yet more words, hoping that these ones will prove less offensive.

"I didn't catch your name."

"That's because no-one's said it yet, Sir." He's deadpan, and I can't tell if he's winding me up or not.

"Oh, well, toss it my way and I'll go long! BJ can hang out in the left field by the mess tent." I give BJ a shove, laughing. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the part of me that knows I sound like an idiot is screaming at me to stop talking. I should stop talking. Okay, I've stopped. But is that me laughing? Yes, I think it is. Should probably stop that too. Check. Okay, awkward silence is resumed.

His eyes dart between me and BJ, and then settle somewhere in the middle as he snaps his heels together. "Sergeant Rogers, Sir, of the 121st Evac, reporting for six days temporary duty as company clerk."

Holy crap, he saluted me. He saluted me and he 'Sirred' me. I think I hate it. "No, no, don't do that." I nudge at his arm. "We don't do that here."

To which Colonel Potter clears his throat. "We do on my watch, son."

"Well, we salute _him_ ," BJ adds, gesturing to the Colonel.

"And Betty Grable, when she shows up in the mess tent on movie night." I grin, and immediately regret my choice of joke.

Rogers stares at me like I've grown an extra head. BJ just grins. Potter rolls his eyes. "Don't worry about those two," he tells Rogers, fishing a cigar out of his pocket. "All you need to know is, two of the finest surgeons in Korea. Also two of the biggest jokers, so watch yourself."

"Yes, Sir."

And with those words, he leads the young man off towards the hospital for the rest of his induction, which presumably won't include bad jokes or inappropriate staring. The kind of staring like I'm doing right now. Should probably stop that. Yeah. Any minute now.

* * *

"Penny for them?"

BJ's words drag me out of the trance I've managed to sink myself into, staring at the ceiling as I toss a balled up pair of socks repeatedly above my head. "Huh?" I glance over, and the ball hits me in the mouth. "Ow!"

BJ laughs, and repeats himself. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Not a chance," I reply, swinging my legs down from their resting position against my army issue shelving. "After seven years of medical education, my thoughts are worth more than that."

"Fine. Martini for your thoughts, then!" BJ proffers a drink.

"Now _that's_ a fair exchange."

BJ pours and I olive. Together, we drink, and sweet silence fills the Swamp.

"You don't like him, do you?"

Or rather it did. "What?" I think I'm gawping. Probably more than I should be. "I mean who?"

"The new clerk. The substitute Radar. You don't like him."

How little he knows... I blink curiously over the rim of my Martini glass as I raise it to my lips. "I never said that."

"Aw, come on, Hawk, I can read you like a book – the kiddie kind with large print and pictures of puppies."

" _Can_ you now?" I feel the smirk spreading across my face as BJ rises from his cot to do his pacing and gesturing as he joyously begins to extrapolate his theory. This is going to be good.

"You did that thing you do!"

"What thing?"

"The thing! When someone gets on your bad side. Like… they don't get your humour, or you think they're kinda… stuffy and, well, _army_ , like that guy, or they're just… not on your wavelength, and you… you crank it up to a hundred with the jokes and the sleaze just to try and rub them up the wrong way."

"I _do_?" Well, he's not wrong, but that's not what I was doing. Or at least I _hope_ it wasn't.

"Yeah… it's kind of obnoxious, really. But, y'know, funny. At least to me anyway."

"Obnoxious but funny? Now there's one to put in my personal ad."

"Hey, relax! So, he just pushed your buttons a little. You can't help being sensitive." He gives a dismissive wave of his hand and moves over to the door so he can set up the dart board, all nonchalant-like. This is something I've noticed BJ doing now we're getting chummier: he finds a flaw and he playfully pokes at it to see what I do. On the surface it's playful teasing, but deep down I sometimes think there's some noble humanitarian cause at work, like he's trying to – god forbid! – make me a better person.

"Obnoxious, funny, and sensitive. This gets better and better!" I'm the one pacing now, part indignant, and part playing along because I'd rather he bark up this tree than the right one. "And tell me, Doctor Freud, exactly which of my buttons did he press."

BJ offers me three darts, a silent invite to join his game. "He didn't laugh at your joke."

He's right there. I made a rotten joke, it fell flat, I felt like a jerk.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not _judging_ you. You're the clowning type. You like to show off. You made a joke, new guy didn't laugh, you felt like a bonehead, you acted out." He throws his first dart and gets a 20.

" _You_ made the joke first!" I observe, leaning around the tent pole so I can give him a pointed look.

"I compared him to Radar." BJ wags his dart at me. " _You_ compared him to a filing cabinet." He throws. Another 20.

Oh god, I did, didn't I? "Oh god, I did, didn't I?"

A wry chuckle from BJ. "You've got some guilt going on, don't you? I don't think I've ever seen you like this."

"Of _course_ I do! I insulted the poor guy!"

"You insult people all the time, Hawk."

"Yeah, but he's…" Cute? Little? Innocent?

"Just a kid? I don't think so – I'd say he's our age."

"Oh, you think?" I'm glad BJ agrees with me on the age thing. It's good to have a confirmation that my newfound stupid, futile crush isn't _entirely_ inappropriate. Still stupid and futile, nonetheless, but that's still a 33% improvement on the alternative.

"Sure. He just... forgot to drink all his milk like a good boy when he was younger, whereas I..."

"Slept with your feet in quick-grow compost."

"Better my feet than your head."

I give him a groan of a laugh for that one. "Okay. You're right, he's not a kid." Most definitely not. Not with that jawline. That perfectly angled jawline with just a lightest peppering of dark ash stubble…

"I think if you call him a kid he'd stand on a box and slug you."

"I should apologise. I'll go speak to him after lunch."

"I thought you didn't like him." He throws his last dart. Hah! Goose egg!

"I never said that," I reply with a smug smile. " _You_ said that."

"I concede on that point," BJ says gracefully. "But I was right about all the other stuff, wasn't I?" He grins, nauseatingly proud of his ability to read me like, as he put it, a kiddie book in large print with pictures.

Yes… and no. I lean in close and shoot him one of my sternest looks. "Move your size twelves and let me throw."

* * *

I don't get the chance to apologise. Not on the first day, and not the one after that. The deluge starts just before lunch. It has to be said, the North Koreans have a lousy sense of timing. And so, like so many afternoons since the charming folks from the draft board deprived me of my liberty, livelihood, and natty wardrobe, I find myself spending several hours sweating under a surgical lamp knitting soldiers back together while their blood drips into my boots. Mealtimes come and go. A nurse feeds me a cheese sandwich while I attempt to navigate a man's small intestine. A few hours later, and Father Mulcahy brings me a hotdog that's only a slightly healthier colour than the guy whose liver I am currently spelunking for scrap metal.

And all the while, he – Rogers – flits in an out with updates from the radio reports, surgical mask clasped over his face with one hand, clipboard permanently attached to the other. He's efficient in a way Radar totally isn't, and adorable in a way that Radar sort of is but never in _that_ sort of way, because oh _Jesus no_! He's all business. He doesn't stop and stare at the patients – in fact, I notice he avoids looking altogether – and he doesn't make small-talk. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder what I was thinking. We probably have nothing in common. It's probably a purely physical attraction, shallow and groundless with no real chemistry, and I should probably just-

Oh, _hello_ , he's coming my way! Oh, quick, try and look charming while you poke around in this guy's spleen!

"Captain Pierce, Sir?"

"Mmm. Yes, I see. Nurse, protractor, if you please?"

"Yes doctor."

And maybe say something witty. Or suggestive. Or witty _and_ suggestive. See if he bites.

"Captain?"

" _Yes,_ soldier? What can I do you for? And please, don't go too high, I'm on draftee money." Oh, fuck. Did I just say that? No, _no_ , please tell me I didn't just say that.

The stony silence that descends upon the O.R. confirms that, yes, I have indeed just said that. Frank drops an instrument. Margaret splutters an outraged "Pierce!" in my direction. Behind me, I can hear BJ trying to stifle a laugh.

I glance at Rogers, and to my shame I can see him turning bright red behind his mask, his hand trembling a little. I know that look. I know that look too damned well. He's not disgusted or outraged at what I just said, but... in a way that would almost have been _better_.

And he's staring right back at me, unwavering, brave yet terrified, like he doesn't know how to respond but he's damned if he's going to run.

He has a harsh gaze. Powerful. I can't resist. "Sorry," I mumble into my patient. "What... uh, what was it you wanted?"

I hear his intake of breath, like he's steeling himself against whatever emotional roller coaster I just sent him on, and he composes himself. "Colonel Potter is just returning from his break. He says you're to finish here, or get to a suitable point, and then you're to retire for four hours after he relieves you."

"Right. Right." Normally I'd comment on the formality of it, tell him to lighten up, but that's the last thing I need to do. Right now, I think formality is the only thing keeping me from picking up a shovel and digging myself in deeper, or him from picking up a kidney dish and lamping me with it. And so I nod and divert my attention to the guy on my table.

I hear Rogers give a barely-audible huff beside me. "Am I dismissed, Sir?" There's an angry edge to his voice now, and I can't say I like it but I sure as hell understand it.

"Yes, Sergeant, you're dismissed."

He moves away, then turns and glances back to me over his surgical mask. "No parting shots you'd like to make before I leave, Sir?"

Holy shit. He's got balls of brass and eyes like ice and he makes me feel like I want to throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.

He doesn't wait for a response. He just turns, and leaves. I breathe a sigh of relief – at least if he's the other side of the door, I can't do any more damage. For now.

Beside me, Ginger is holding up an instrument.

"What's that?"

"The protractor you asked for, doctor."

"Well, put it back."

She puts it back, and I sigh wearily and set about getting the poor schmuck on my table ready for a handover. For once, I'd actually gladly switch places with him. The silence in the O.R. is deafening.

"Anyone mind if I sew myself into this patient?"

* * *

Potter takes over, just as planned. No comments are made about my sense of humour and its alarming tendency to disarm and alarm borrowed company clerks. This is a good sign – presumably he hasn't said anything – and I de-mask and cut through the scrub room into the open air. I was tired a moment ago, but the chill of the night air wakes me up like a slap in the face. Fitting. I think I deserve one.

I glance across the compound, squinting as my eyes adjust to the dim light. And there he is, the object of my foolish lusting and inadvertent taunting: crossing the dirt back to his office, presumably having been handling the changeover for the nurses and the corpsmen, dragging weary soldiers from their beds. God, I hope I can behave myself when he stops by my tent in four hours' time!

Maybe I should get that apology done _now_ , before things get too awkward.

I change course, and start making a beeline towards him, hands in pockets, nice slow amble, as non-threatening as I can be, and I can be pretty non-threatening, given that I weigh the same as a matchstick and am built like the skeleton in the corner of an anatomy class.

He stops, glances up, sees me walking towards him. And then he turns away, quickens pace back to the hospital building and slams the door, ice blue eyes glaring at me as he does so.

That settles that then. Great. I'm an asshole.


	2. Day 2

**Day 2**

I don't have the best night's sleep. Not that I ever do, mind - not when I have a hospital full of dying patients just across the dirt-track – but on this occasion I wake repeatedly dreaming not of severed limbs and spurting arteries, but of blue eyes and a chiselled jawline, and me saying something not-awful for once.

"Hawkeye?"

I smile, stirring and nestling deeper into my pillow. "Mmmm. You called me Hawkeye."

"I always call you Hawkeye."

I start awake and sit up, blinking. "Beej?"

BJ is sitting on my bed wearing bloody scrubs and an amused smile. "Who else?"

"That's a good question." I stretch sleepily, scratching my ribs with one hand and rubbing my eye with the other – I'm very talented that way. "Changeover?"

"Yup. New batch of wounded for you, get 'em while they're hot." Ah, Beej. He's slipped right into the army like he's been here all his life – alcoholism, insomnia, and a morbid sense of humour. I watch as he limps off to his own bed, kicking off his boots before collapsing, fully clothed on top of the blankets. He looks like he's out before he hits the mattress, and so I set about finding my boots in silence.

"Who was she?" Oh, not asleep, it would appear.

"Who was who?"

"The girl you were dreaming about."

"Never you mind."

"Ooh, a dirty little secret!" He flips onto his back, grinning at the ceiling, eyes closed.

"Something like that."

"She married?"

I bristle at his quip. I don't think I like this guessing game. "What makes you jump straight to 'married'?"

He shrugs, tucking his hands behind his head. "All the best girls are married." And he grins a little wider. And I can tell he's off in Peg-land and couldn't give two figs about my dirty little secret.

I let the conversation lie. May as well. I don't have anything to say in response – he didn't mention anything about best _boys_ at all.

* * *

I hit the scrub room again – doesn't feel like five minutes since I left – and get changed and cleaned. Gown, gloves, mask... "I'm ready for my patient, Mr DeMille!" A bump of the hip to the door and I'm through into the O.R. – over on the far side this time – and straight to work, on autopilot, listening as a nurse reels off a list of fractures and shrapnel and bleeds (oh my!) Just another day at the office.

It's quiet in here. I let it remain so, just getting on with my work. I have to say, I do a good job, given what I had to work with. The guy might even live. "Okay, I'm done here."

As they take the poor schmuck away, I allow myself a brief glance through the window in the door opposite. Klinger's at the desk, hen-pecking away at a type-writer, probably trying to work out how to spell 'report'. Rogers must be on his break. Oh good – that means I can't say anything to upset him again, unless the guy's already having nightmares about me. Wincing, I allow myself a thirty second break to rehearse an apology in my head before they bring in the next casualty and it starts all over again.

It's dark again by the time we're done. Another three meals hand fed to us over our tables; another half a dozen cups of coffee slurped through straws as we stand there wrist-deep in guts; an elaborate and barely-choreographed _danse macabre_ performed to the dulcet tone of a squadron of bombers and heavy artillery in the distance. _Boom ka-boom, cha-cha-cha_.

The O.R. looks like a bomb's hit it, too: everything in disarray, casualties of war collapsed in corners, the nurse asleep on her chair by the gas cylinders, Frank trying to read a patient's file through his eyelids, and BJ curled up on an operating table. I take a moment to stare at him, trying to figure out how I'm going to get him back to the Swamp.

As I do so, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. "You goin' my way, soldier?"

He's out of it. May as well leave him here. "Going? You're gone, Beej."

"I am?"

"Hundred percent."

"Okay. I'll wait here so's you can catch up."

I smile and tuck his hand gently back on the table. "You do that."

"Mmm. Nighty night."

"Yeah, goodnight."

I glance up. There's movement over in the office – a light on, and somebody moving around. Could be anybody – Klinger, Potter, a dozen or so rats in a field jacket – but it's worth a shot. I've rehearsed this about a hundred times by now, so there's no point in dragging it out any longer.

Taking a deep breath, I dump my mask, cap and gown, and stride through, shoving the door open with a determined optimism that is probably woefully misplaced and ill-conceived.

 _Thud! CRASH_.

"Ow!"

And clumsy as shit.

"Oh hell, I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

"No, please, let me get this."

"I said it's nothing!"

"No, it's fine. I just... I'm sorry. I should have..."

There are papers all over the floor, out of their folders and drifting under the desk and under the table. I'm on my knees in an instant, grovelling around in the dust and trying frantically to retrieve them all. I glance upwards for a split second, long enough to register Rogers standing there behind the door I just hit him with, clutching an empty filing tray and nursing a sore elbow. Funny – he looks tall from this angle.

What I _don't_ register is the open filing cabinet he was loading up when I burst in. With my arms full of papers, I stand, striking the top of my head right on the corner of the metal drawer. The papers go flying again, and this time I'm the one shouting in pain.

"I'm sorry," I say again, moaning a little as the world revolves and tilts at some interesting angles that I'm sure betray the laws of physics and astronomy, but the lights sure are pretty... "I'll get those."

He makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a snort, grabs me by the arms – oh, hands! Hands on me! Oh, this is unexpected! – and rotates me ninety degrees to lean against the desk. "Stay there," he says. "Don't move. And please, whatever you do, don't help."

I do as I'm told and stay put, nursing my sore head, and watching as he crawls around retrieving the papers again. It would be quite a nice thing to watch, if I my head wasn't hurting so much. At least I don't have concussion. And I'm not bleeding, so that's good.

Papers retrieved, Rogers dumps them all in his file tray and drops it – carefully – onto the desk.

I smile at the neat little tray. "There. See, no harm done."

"Actually, I–" he eyes the tray with no small amount of irritation "–have to sort those again... _now_."

"Oh." My shoulders sag, but not half as much as his. "I'm sorry."

He blinks at me and rubs at the bridge of his nose, clearly exhausted. "Forget it. Was there something you wanted?"

I stare at him, momentarily thrown by the pain in my head and the distracting, flustering impact of the cute guy asking the question. "Something I wanted?"

He gestures to the door and rubs his elbow again. "Yes, when you came in just now. You looked... purposeful. Did you want something?"

Oh. Right. Yes. Purpose, wanting, something. That was it. I shake my head once more to clear the fog, and stumble forth into what _was_ , at some point, a well thought out speech: "I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

He looks at me, his face blank like he doesn't have the faintest clue what I'm referring to. And then, after a few seconds, his mouth curls into a smirk, then a grin, and he _laughs_. He laughs like I've just said the funniest thing ever to be heard in Korea – and we'd had Bob Hope! He throws his head back and holds his sides and rocks back and forth, and God help me he's _delightful_.

And then I realise – I've barely said anything other than 'sorry' since I came in here. For some reason, probably exhaustion and embarrassment, I start to laugh too.

He falls silent at last, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "I must be tired," he says with a grin, "because that was not _that_ funny."

"The war does that to you," I reply with a grin. "We treat it here all the time. Cabaret fatigue: once a guy sees too many variety show comics, his sense of humour just can't take it anymore. Next thing you know, he starts laughing at Doris Day movies."

He's calmer now, staring back at me with those icy blue eyes, smiling but reserved. "Is that right?" He's toying with me, I can see it. He doesn't trust me, so he's poking me to see if I bite.

"A tragic case."

"Uh-huh." He takes a step back and folds his arms.

Okay, that's enough. I change tack and drop the act. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier."

"You are, huh?"

"Yes. Very. Extremely."

"I see."

"So I just wanted to apologise for being a jerk."

"Oh, you did?"

"Yeah."

"Which time when you were a jerk? The time when you insulted me or the time when you made a cheap joke at my expense in front of the entire staff?"

Ouch. He doesn't pull his punches. My lousy feeling increases ten-fold. It wasn't deliberate, not on either count, but I guess that doesn't matter much. "Either? Both? The worst one first and then the second? If you like I can come back in and apologise twice?"

He gives a snort of a laugh and shakes his head. "And risk sending my paperwork flying again? Let's not."

"Okay."

He goes quiet, and the conversation stutters and stalls. He turns away, taking his box of papers and resting them on top of the open drawer in order to sort them again. There is no further discussion. He stares intently at a typed and stapled document sighs, then tosses it onto the desk: Klinger's Daily Report, 'report' spelled 'R-I-P-P-O-R-T. Poor guy – he's gonna have to type that up again... I'm beginning to think I should leave.

"Do you always do that?"

The question takes me by surprise, somewhat out of left field, like there's being a whole other lead-up to it that was only in his head and I had no part in. "Do what?"

Another pause. He stares at another document, but makes no move to discard it or file it. I watch his Adam's apple bob twice in quick succession. He wets his lips. "Make jokes like that in front of the men?"

I see where this is going. I hadn't expected this, although I probably should have. "I'm... a little renowned for it, yeah."

He sniffs and nods. "You should watch that," he says in a soft, sombre tone. "You could get in trouble that way."

"I haven't yet." I don't mean to sound flippant – I'm aiming for reassurance.

" _Or_ you could get someone _else_ in trouble."

"That wasn't my intention. But...you're right, I was a little..." What was the word I had in mind for this part? I had a word. A carefully selected word. I thought of it while I was fishing for shrapnel in some poor guy's intestines. "Reckless," I decide on at last. "I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Another snort, and he tosses aside his filing box. "Guys like you never do." He's exhausted, rubbing at his face with one hand and leaning on the cabinet with the other. He yawns, and I yawn too, a psychological explanation for that particular phenomenon ghosting across my brain as scraps of useless trivia tend to do. In spite of my exhaustion, I can see what he's getting at. Tall, exuberant womanisers are the last in line to be suspected of homosexuality. Small, delicate, softly spoken secretaries on the other hand...

"You're right. I took a risk with something that wasn't mine to chance. I won't do it again."

"Well..." He pauses, staring at the floor in the corner, like he can't quite look me in the eye. "I guess you've got no reason to now, have you?" And then he looks right at me. Not ice this time: _steel_.

Now it's my turn to swallow. "I guess not."

He nods, and I believe we have reached an accord. "Okay." A tired, weary sigh escapes him. "Could you move, please? I need to re-type yesterday's report."

I move, and he sits, rubbing his eyes as he attempts to focus on the keys and the report through his exhaustion. "Would you like me to read it for you?"

"If you could, that would be a help."

His response is devoid of emotion, and at this point I can't tell whether he hates me or might have just fallen in love with me. He gives nothing away, and God help me if this isn't the most intriguing, fascinating, _alluring_ thing I've ever known!

We sit and work in quiet, professional peace, silent other than my dictation and his rhythmic _click-clack_ ing of keys. He's a fast typist, and accurate. We skip through the document in no time. Quite a team! We should do more things together... I can think of a few.

"I'm sorry I insulted you as well," I add quite spontaneously as he staples the document together and drops the original in the trash.

He looks up at me, and a satisfied smile appears on his face. "Thank you."

"If it makes any difference I didn't mean it."

He scoffs at that, turning away to file the report under the correct tab. "I find that rather hard to believe."

"Why? Do I come across that callous to you?" I try to lean closer, but my co-ordination is shot through tiredness and I place my hand on the back of the office chair, which swivels and causes me to flail in a clumsy tangle of limbs as I regain my poise. I bat my eyelashes.

He stares at me, then goes back to his files. "You said I was the size of a filing cabinet."

"Yes, but I didn't mean it as a bad thing."

"You think I'm short." His voice raises a little, and he _pouts_. He actually pouts. " _Comically_ so, it would appear."

"Actually I think you're adorable." Oh God, did I just say that? I must be tired, because this is dangerous territory and I probably shouldn't be doing this. But for once I'm not putting my foot in it by making fun out of him – if he knocks me back I can deal with it. At least I said something _nice_ for once!

And he stares at me, eyes wide. And then, just as bizarrely, he laughs. Like, _really_ laughs. Oh God, Cabaret fatigue strikes again! I sure know how to pick 'em! Here I am, sleep deprived and overworked and fawning over a guy who hates my jokes and laughs at my compliments and apologies. Well, if _this_ isn't a match made in Heaven...

No, it's a match made in the army.

"That wasn't supposed to be funny."

Still laughing, he shakes his head and finally stuffs the report in the right folder – which, in case he hasn't figured it out yet, is under W for 'waffle to send to ICORP'. "I don't know," he says, retrieving the rest of the papers and prodding at them. "First you insult me, and now you're..." He waves a hand in confusion.

"I think you'll find that was a _compliment_ , Sergeant."

He laughs again. "Apparently!"

"Is that not better?"

Smiling, he raises his eyebrows in what appears to be a half-hearted attempt at an eye roll, only his heart – and his eyeballs, for that matter – aren't in it. "You're really quite the character you know?" he muses as he continues to sort his papers.

"In what kind of story?" Grinning, I kick my legs out and cross my ankles, arms folded, just making myself cosy on his desk.

He shoots me a pointed look. "In one where the lead guy is very tired, and not making a lot of sense, and needs to go to bed." He spots my posture, gives my boots a kick and snags my elbow in one hand to tug me off his desk.

"You're right, that's a great idea. I think yours is nearest."

He gives a funny squawk of a laugh that's about one third a yelp of indignant fury, one third amusement, and one third – even though I do say so myself – excitement, and chivvies me towards the door. "You can't _say_ things like that!" His voice is breathless, like I've squeezed all the air out of him with words.

"I'm sorry. I'll stop. Do you want me to stop?"

He looks at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly slack like he's too overwhelmed to hold his jaw closed. We've come to a halt somewhere near the door, his hand still on my arm, the other at my chest. His eyes dart away, around the empty office, to the door to post-op, the O.R., Potter's office, and pre-op. And, finally, back to me. He hesitates, licks his lips, and then replies: " _No_."

It's barely a whisper, but that one little word lights fireworks in my heart. Although, actually, that could just be the mess tent hot dogs. I smile at him warmly, and his fingers tighten a little at my shirt. I'd kiss him, but I think that might be overstepping. "Do you want me to come back tomorrow?" It's a nice, light request. Not imposing, not pushing. "I can apologise more. You seem to like that."

He laughs.

"See? Just the thought of it makes you laugh."

He falls quiet, screwing his face up in a hilarious way as he forces the laugh back down.

"Besides, I've got a six pack of piss-weak Japanese beer in my footlocker. We can share it and get not-drunk." I shoot him my broadest, most charming smile, and watch in delight as his ears turn bright red.

"If I say yes," he ventures with as much composure as a man can muster when he's turning puce at the attentions of another guy, "will you please go and get some sleep? I don't want to be running to the Colonel to tell him his chief surgeon collapsed in my office."

My heart soars, and I fear I might have to lean on the door to stop from falling. Although, that could be the exhaustion. "Great. We'll pick up tomorrow. It's a date. I'll wear my best evening gown and wash my hair for you specially."

He rolls his eyes again, this time with far more effective results, detracted only by the embarrassed grin that's taken up residency a few inches below. "You're terrible, Captain." He gives me chest a weak shove and I humour him by pretending to stagger back a couple of paces.

"Actually, I'm Hawkeye." I grin at him, loitering with one hand on the door handle, quite loath to leave this encounter. "I didn't catch your name, Sergeant Rogers."

I see him hesitate, like he feels it's improper or something – that's a laugh, after the tone of the conversation we've just had – and once again he glances about to check there's nobody listening. Having decided it's safe, he tells me: "Steve."

My grin softens to a smile. _Steve_.

"Now, will you _please_ leave before you fall down?!" He nods towards the door and retreats a pace or two, arms folded, in case I try to sway him with some sort of... physically romantic persuasion. Not that I could in this state, but it's sweet that he thinks I'm capable of being quite so energetic after a 36 hour deluge.

"Alright, I'll let you get your zee-zees." I open the door and lean on it as I give him one last look. "G'night, Steve."

And as I leave, I hear the quietest reply, barely murmured as the door closes behind me: "Night, Hawkeye."

Oh. _Oh_! May the Lord have mercy on my hopelessly romantic soul!

* * *

The stars are out and the crickets are chirping. It's good to hear them – it means the jets are gone, which means the bombardment has stopped, which means we're all out of bombed human beings, at least for now. It's funny how the sound of bombers thundering overhead every two minutes just becomes white noise once you've heard it for so long. I cross the compound to the Swamp, subdued by fatigue but dancing on the inside. The tent is still and quiet, with Frank notable by his absence. His evenings with Margaret have become more frequent, more prolonged, and less subtle. It's nice not having to deal with him, and I settle myself on my cot in blessed silence to unlace my boots.

"Where were you?"

I start a little, and glance over to the cot opposite. "I thought you were sleeping in the O.R."

BJ rolls over and his cot creaks under his weight. "I was, but I woke up with a pain in my shoulder and a numb foot. I thought you'd be here."

"Yeah, I... had a thing to take care of."

"Oh." There's a suggestive tone to BJs voice, and he settles on his back, hands tucked behind his head. "Who was she?"

I kick my boots off and cock my head at him. "I don't kiss and tell." No lie there. I didn't even kiss, so there's nothing to tell anyway. Standing, I divest myself of my scrubs and fling them across the room onto Frank's cot.

"Yes you do!" BJ chuckles, his cot creaking beneath him as his body shakes. "That's how it works – you kiss, you tell me, and I get to live vicariously through you. A married man has to have _some_ pleasures when the love of his life is over five thousand miles away."

"Not tonight, honey, I have a headache." Comfortable in t-shirt and boxers, I clamber into my uncomfortable but welcoming bed, shivering a little at the cold sheets.

There's silence from the other side of the Swamp. And then: "You really are fooling around with a married woman, aren't you?"

I wince. There's real anger in BJ's voice – this isn't an accusation he takes lightly. BJ is understanding of most of my vices, putting all judgement aside and recognising my dalliances for the harmless sources of mutual comfort they are, but I know well enough that there's a line in the sand where some things are concerned. Sighing, I close my eyes and address the canvas above me. "No, I'm really not. I just... don't wanna talk about my lovelife when I've barely slept in two days!"

This much is true. I may not have crossed _that_ line, but there's a very real possibility that I've crossed another, and I'm not about to go poking around in BJ's moral sandbox to try and find out.

Silence. Blissful, welcome, silence.

The light snaps on.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_! I just don't feel like talking right now."

More silence. I look over at him.

"Would you turn the light off?"

"And you're sure you're okay."

"I said I'm fine! Other than being _exhausted_ , something which could be easily treated with _sleep_!"

He stares at me for a moment, like he doesn't quite believe me – which, let's be honest, I can't blame him for – and then, at last, he snaps the light off.

We lie in uncomfortable silence.

This isn't good. No, this isn't the right course at all. I _always_ share with Beej. I share and I squeal over the details and wax ecstatic about the best parts and whisper the pornographic parts, and then he smiles and tells me how lucky I am and then goes right back to writing his wife and I realise that he's absolutely sure in his belief that he's even luckier. And that's great, because that's Beej, y'know? Sometimes he might put a face to a name, and then he'll raise an eyebrow and give me a knowing nod as a particular nurse walks past our table in the mess tent, but that's it. He's totally respectful. Never gave me reason to doubt him. And yet here I am, obviously doubting him.

I need a new plan.

"I was with... uh... the new nurse that shipped in yesterday."

"New nurse?"

"Yeah." Okay, that was terrible.

"I didn't see any new nurse."

"Of course you didn't. You're married, remember."

"But I don't even..."

"You saw her _vicariously_. I promise."

There's a pause. "Why are you being so cagey?"

He's right. This really is a terrible story.

"She's Catholic." Better. Much better. "It was kind of a big step for her, and she didn't want anybody to know. It has to be a secret, so..."

"Oh." I can hear realisation dawning. "Right." And then: "Are you sure that's such a good idea?"

"Beej!" I roll my eyes and press a hand to my aching head. "Could you drop it? She's dealing with a lot. It's... sort of personal." In a funny way, it's not far from the truth, aside from being a complete lie.

"Well, I'm sorry, Hawk. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's okay, Beej," I reply, talking through my eyelids and pulling the covers up to my chin. "You weren't to know."

There's a relived sigh from BJ's corner of the tent, and a rustle of blankets as he settles himself once more. "Night, Hawk."

I sigh as well, out of relief more than anything, and do the same. "Night, Beej." I allow myself to drift into the arms of Morpheus, wondering how I'm going to explain to Steve that, as far as my roommate is concerned, he's now a Catholic army nurse who's just lost her virginity to me in the supply room.


	3. Day 3

**Day 3**

I have to confess to feeling an unusual amount of nerves at the anticipation of an evening with my new favourite Sergeant. Maybe it's the inherent _danger_ involved with dating a guy while in the army? Maybe it's the fact that I've already got BJ breathing down my neck in that well-meaning way that he does? Or maybe it's the fact that while being the most adorable human being I ever met, Steve still has that frosty edge to him that suggests I'm going to be out on my ass if I say the wrong thing – again. I watch him going about his duties while I run the morning post-op. He's so... efficient and proper and business-like and... well, _army_. He'll have to watch that – they might end up wanting to keep him. I know I do!

He handles himself around me with impeccable poise. While I'm grinning like a loon and salivating and tripping over my own tongue, he salutes me and 'Captain's me and gives me terse little nods and the barest glances of eye contact like he's full scale undercover or something. He's alarmingly good at it: by the time I'm due to swing by after dark, I'm beginning to think I dreamt the whole thing and he's going to look at me blankly when I show up with my beer, wearing my best 'come kiss me' outfit. The other possibility is that this is a set-up and he's working for the CIA and has been sent to wheedle me out as a suspected subversive. If he brings up the fascinating and thought-provoking works of Karl Marx in casual conversation tonight, I know I'm in trouble!

But, I have decided he's worth the risk.

I have the tent to myself for much of the evening: Frank finishes his shift and immediately slinks off to Hot Lips country, but BJ catches me dolling myself up before I can slink off myself. Okay, so now he knows I'm going on a date tonight... with a nurse who doesn't exist. I try to act nonchalant and pretend that doesn't make me nervous. My hand slips and I slosh aftershave down my shirt. "Damn!"

"You're supposed to dab that on, not take a bath in it."

"Army life stinks – I'm trying to out-stink it."

I watch BJ out of the corner of my eye as he shirks his khaki shirt and pulls on the purple kimono he picked up in Tokyo. Hmm... he looks good in that. Maybe I ought to go for something more... silky? My lucky Hawaiian shirt hasn't been lucky for a good couple of months now. I have a red happi coat kicking around somewhere, smooth and supple, like liquid sex, and short, too.

But no. This whole operation already feels tentative enough – I don't want to blow it by showing up in the male equivalent of lingerie.

"Coming to the movie, Hawk?"

Fat chance. "I'm not sure. What is it?"

" _Abbott and Costello Meet the Invisible Man_."

"Seen that one."

"Ah-ha- _hah_. Good one." BJ hitches a foot up to re-tie his sneakers. "Seeing your _nun_ , are you?"

I shoot him a smirk and a withering glare. "If you keep on like that, I'm going to have to start seriously considering dropping our relationship."

"Aww, you wouldn't ditch the poor girl over _me_."

"I meant _you_." I toss a shaving brush at him and turn away.

As I dig my crate of beer out from my footlocker, I can practically _hear_ him starting to overthink. I can sense an accusation coming my way.

"You're really serious about this girl, aren't you?"

Okay, that was _not_ the accusation I anticipated.

Taking a leaf out of Steve's book, I try and shoot him down with an icy glare and a few choice words. "There's a certain seriousness about our _circumstances_ , all respective sentiment, feelings and moral implications considered. So, if you don't mind...?"

BJ falls silent, which is... good, I guess? That was the point, right? Somehow, it feels like I've won but not on terms I'm entirely happy with. I've never seen BJ look so contrite, so concerned, so... serious. I continue my preparations in silence.

"You're taking our Asahi?"

" _My_ Asahi! I paid for it! _And_ I carried all the way across Tokyo!"

"We were saving that!"

"We were not _saving_ it – we'd _forgotten_ about it!"

He falls silent, and I watch as his face scrunches up in displeasure, clearly holding back further argument. "Fine. Enjoy your date."

"Enjoy your movie."

"I'll see you later."

"I'll be out late."

"So will I. I'm on the night shift this week. Gotta use my days off to adjust my clock."

The phrase ' _Oh yeah, since when?_ ' hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I'm not about to argue too much. I make my escape with my beer and resign myself to spending the next four days looking over my shoulder.

* * *

It's strange being able to just walk straight into Steve's quarters without knocking. I'd never given it much thought before, but a company clerk really _doesn't_ have much in the way of privacy. It never really registered when it was Radar – we just used to walk in and wake him up and demand he make phone calls – but suddenly I'm painfully aware of just how awkward it is for a grown man to sleep in the corner of a room that is essentially office, lobby and corridor all rolled into one.

This is mind, I pop my head around the door. "Knock knock."

"Hey." Steve's at his desk, just his head visible over the top of his typewriter. He glances in my direction as I enter, but seems largely nonplussed by my presence, still _click-clack_ ing away like a good little desk Sergeant. I suddenly find myself picturing some kind of dirty secretary fantasy where I tug the paper from his type writer and fling it over my shoulder, and he whips his glasses off and kisses me, only Steve's not wearing glasses and I think if I touched his typewriter he'd probably kill me with his eyes.

And so, instead, I perch on the edge of his desk like an awkward office mascot and smile at him, placing my offering of beer beside him. "How's it going?"

"Going okay," he replies, squinting at what he's just written. "I have a few things to finish off, but you're welcome to hang out here."

"Sure I won't be too much of a distraction?"

He looks up at me again. "Don't flatter yourself."

I laugh – his ribbing is good-natured enough, and I can probably expect a lot more of that. I deserve it.

"You're out of uniform," he observes quietly in between key-strokes. He sounds... genuinely surprised.

I glance down at myself. "I put on pants for you. Isn't that enough?"

"And you reek." He coughs, covering his mouth and nose with his arm as he pushes himself away from the desk.

"Oh, _thanks_. Now you're getting personal!"

The coughing doesn't stop, and he's on his feet, his eyes watering.

Oh. _Oh_. "Oh, it's my shirt, I spilled some aftershave..."

He turns away, and between coughing flaps a hand at me. "Take it off!"

"I don't think I can."

"The _shirt_." He's turning bright red now and wheezing, bent double as he tries to stop himself from hacking his guts up.

"I..." I hesitate, unsure how to respond. Taking my clothes off in front of him at this point feels like the most inappropriate thing in the world, but...

"I have _asthma_! Please, take it off!"

"Oh." Without another thought, I whip the shirt off over my head, and ball it up as tight as I can.

"That as well." He points at my undershirt, and glancing down I notice a faded wet stain on the cotton where the aftershave has soaked through.

Life, it seems, has a sense of humour.

I pull my undershirt off, too, finding myself now stripped to the waist in the presence of my sweet, unassuming date, who is now bright red with streaming eyes and is making retching sounds as he stares at me. It's also cold in here. I fold my arms over myself and stab myself in the armpits with my own nipples.

"Well, this is awkward."

"You need to get those out of here!" He nods towards my clothes.

"Right now?"

"Right now. And wash that stuff off!"

He coughs again and rush through the door, through the O.R. and into the scrub room. I can't help but wonder how he's still out here with asthma this bad, I wonder if he might be offended by an offer for a check-up as I drop my aftershave-soaked clothing into the laundry bin. Before leaving, I quickly slather myself in water from the scrub sinks – oh that's _cold_! – to wash off the rest. When I return, still half naked and now slightly wet, rubbing myself with a borrowed towel, Steve's scrabbling in a bag for something. Keeping a concerned eye on him, I open the window before fanning the outer door to air the room. Steve emerges from behind the desk clutching a handheld atomiser, which he clasps between his lips and pumps, inhaling wheezily. He releases it with a cough, blinking away tears.

"Better?"

Steve takes another gasp from his inhaler, staring at me over the top of the rubber pump. At last, his breathing begins to normalise and he lowers his hand, leaning against the desk to stare at me through with watery eyes.

"For a minute there I was worried I was going to have to start giving you mouth to mouth."

He raises his eyebrows. "That could have been interesting."

"Uh... given the circumstances." I shift a little, wrapping my arms tighter around my naked torso. "Do you mind if I..." I'm about to excuse myself to rush back to the Swamp for a clean shirt, but given that I don't have any, and things between me and BJ are far too tense for me to be able to start rummaging through his footlocker, I have to rethink. "Actually, forget it. I'm good."

Steve laughs, his voice crackling as his respiratory system recovers. "Here, you can borrow something of mine." He turns away to poke through his duffel back, and I loiter awkwardly beside him. He tosses me a t-shirt.

"Thanks." I pull the shirt on, which is... not quite an easy task. Once on, it's form-fitting in a way none of my shirts are, and a way that the army outfitters probably never intended. "This is a little small."

Steve steps back, looks me up and down in a way that is both shameless and completely pragmatic, and replies: "Yeah, but you look good in it."

With these words, he brushes past me and heads back to his desk, acting for all the world like he hasn't just made my knees go weak.

"Take a seat," he tells me as he seats himself back at his typewriter. "I'll only be a few minutes." He waves a hand at me. "Please, make yourself at home."

I glance about myself. Oh, he's gesturing to... his bed. Radar's bed? No, let's not think like that. This is Steve's bed. Fresh sheets, fresh blankets, fresh pillow cover. I sink onto the mattress and perch there, hands clasped over the edge as I watch him work. It feels... strange. I find myself sucking my gut in, figuring if I'm not doing any seducing I may as well look pretty while I'm sat here. There's something strangely passive about it all, almost feminine, like I'm a high school girl hanging out at her boyfriend's place, waiting for him to finish his homework and pay attention to me. It's odd.

"What'cha doin'?" The question couldn't be more ridiculous unless I popped a sucker in my mouth and swung my feet back and forth in little white ankle socks.

"The daily report," Steve replies without looking up.

"Am I in it?" It's a silly question, and I grin across the room at him.

His eyes flicker up, and in the light from his angle-poise desktop lamp I can see the dimples in his cheeks as he smiles. "Yes." Somehow, he turns a single syllable in a teasing sing-song. Humouring me, he rolls the cylinder back and begins to read: "Captain Pierce assumed morning duties in post-op. Patients attended included Private Warren (multiple fractures and superficial shrapnel wounds), Private Jenkins (deep laceration to right shoulder), Corporal Verne... etc etc. Late morning, patient Sergeant Collins reported abdominal pain, Captain Pierce recommended increased pain meds, continued observation and x-ray... Captain Pierce handed over to attending pm physician Major Burns at fourteen-hundred hours." He recites it all with a kind of... sarcastic boredom, then stops and sits back in his chair. "And there you have it."

"It's riveting stuff," I tell him with a grin.

"That it is."

"I hope they make a movie. I'd make a great Hollywood doctor. They could cast Cary Grant."

Steve makes a face and shoots me a 'are you kidding?' look as he resumes his typing. "Nah," he says with a wrinkle of his nose.

"You don't see it?" I strike a post for him and try and look movie-star-like.

He shakes his head. "Robert Alda."

"Who's he?"

"Uh...have you seen _Rhapsody in Blue_?"

"No."

" _April Showers_?"

"Nuh-uh."

" _Nora Prentiss_?"

"Who's she?"

"It's a movie."

"Oh. Then no."

A pause. " _The Man I Love_?"

"I'm sorry?" I can't help but tease him.

"You heard."

"Depends. Do I know him?"

"Shut up." I see the smirk on his face from here, and the tips of his ears turn bright red.

I laugh and lean back a little on his bed. "No, I haven't seen any of those."

"Ah." He bashes his typewriter a few times. "Well... he was in all of them."

"Ohhh, _that_ guy."

The conversation fizzles, but an easy silence descends.

"Help yourself to beer," I tell him, and he thanks me and reaches into the case for a bottle. There's an opener in there, too, and he cracks the top on the second attempt, scraping his knuckles on the first, then tosses me a bottle, too. The opener follows on the second throw, which is badly aimed and sends me diving across the room so as not to drop it.

"Sorry."

"It's okay – I needed the exercise."

I pop my beer open, leaving the opener on the bed beside me and pocketing the cap – yes, I collect stupid things like that sometimes. As I sit there, sipping away, watching him type, I find something hard under the covers. I prod at it. It's large and rectangular, tucked inside the blankets just below the pillow. Curious, I forget my manners and pull back the sheets revealing a large, navy-blue leather-bound book. His name is inscribed on the front in white pencil, and the spine is cracked and worn.

"Ooh, what's this?"

He looks up, and then just as suddenly he stands bolt upright, his chair scraping alarmingly on the floor. " _Don't touch that_!"

I drop the book instantly, flinging the blanket back over. "Sorry. I shouldn't have..."

He hesitates, then, as if reassessing the situation, calms himself and takes his seat again. "No... no, don't worry. It's just a reflex. You can... you can look."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, go ahead." He doesn't look at me, just focuses on re-reading his report, like he's still not _quite_ sure, but whatever discomfort he's feeling has been quashed.

I take his word for it, and open the book.

Oh my!

My new favourite guy is an _artist_. And a good one, too. Page after page after page of sketches, some scenery, a lot of people, all highly detailed, precise, and naturalistic. He's amazingly talented. So captivated am I by this tiny, beautiful, pencilled universe, that I don't even notice that he's finished typing and the room as gone silent, until he's standing next to me.

I look up him, finding him hovering, as if nervous, waiting for my judgement.

"These are beautiful," I tell him, in complete sincerity.

Smiling, he sits down beside me – almost brazenly – reaching across to flick through the pages. "I've been practicing since I was a kid," he explains, picking a page. "Not much else to do when you're too sick to play out." He settles on a picture of an old Korean woman, his hands clasped on a walking stick, and a watchful expression on her face. "I like people," Steve explains softly. "The details. Here." He gestures to where the woman's hands curl, the wrinkles in the skin and the liver spots carefully dotted onto the paper. He turns the page to reveal a landscape sketch of Kimpo Airbase, and a single, solitary soldier in Class A uniform sitting on the steps outside the M.A.T.S. office, his sagging posture revealing the exhausted relief of a man leaving a warzone. Every detail is immaculate – the corrugated iron of the roof, the insignia of the man's uniform – and I wonder where he gets the time to make these in between his work.

"You're really talented, you know."

He laughs, looking away from me and blushing. This guy really doesn't know how to take a compliment.

"I'm serious! You could do this for a living."

"It's hard to get into. Nobody pays big bucks for plain ol' pencil sketches."

"Anatomy textbooks – you'd be perfect! The detail, the precision!"

He wrinkles his nose. Yeah, good point, he'd be bored.

"Portraits then!"

"I tried. Nobody wanted to pay me."

"Well... they're morons."

He gives a half-hearted shrug. "That's how it goes sometimes. There's not much job security in sitting out in Central Park doing sketches of tourists for a couple of bucks apiece. Besides, I'm sorta slow. People got bored waiting."

I can't see how. I'd sit and watch this guy work for hours. "Like I said – _morons_."

I shoot him a smile, and he smiles back. This feels... ridiculous. Nice, but ridiculous. We're sitting on his bed smiling at one another like dorks. And neither one of us apparently has the guts to kiss the other.

He pulls away from me, and slips the book out of my grasp. "Would you mind?"

The question takes me by surprise, and I'm not sure what he's even asking at first. Then, it sinks in.

"Oh! Right..."

"Only if you want to."

"Well, I've never..."

He laughs. "It's not hard."

"That's what she said."

He hits me with his book.

"Ow!"

"Funny guy."

"Okay, fine. How do you want me?"

"Just... where you are."

"Should I...?" I try and find somewhere to put my beer.

"No, no, you can keep that. Just... be natural."

Easier said than done. I try to relax as he circles me, surveying my form with a critical eye. At last, he settles on an angle, sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, gazing up at me, his beer on the floor beside him. I toss him his pillow for his knees.

"Thanks."

He opens the book and props it open on the corner of the bed before extracting a pencil from his top pocket. I suddenly feel more than a little nervous.

"You want me to take my clothes off again?" The joke is a rather poorly thought out attempt at making this less uncomfortable.

Steve sharpens his pencil and brushes the shavings away and under the bed. "Only if you want to," he tosses back at me, perfectly deadpan.

He's got me there: I don't, so I sit quietly and let him work.

He's right – he does take his time with these things, but as he said, he loves the details, and you don't get that by rushing these things.

It's uncomfortable, but only so far as being scrutinized by a guy you're drooling over is bound to be uncomfortable. I'm free to move, and to drink my beer, and my _next_ beer, and–

"So how does a guy like you get to be a sergeant?"

"I beg your pardon?"

–free to ask stupid questions, it would appear. "No, I mean... in this line of work. What, did you... demonstrate an exemplary discipline in filing? Supply a General with an urgent phone call during the heat of battle? Exhibit outstanding bravery in the face of papercuts?"

"Oh." He relaxes a little, and so do I. "Uh... nothing like that. I just... served for a few years and every now and then I go up a rank. It's not exactly a job where I get to stand out as anything special. I mean really, this is the closest I've been to the front line during this entire conflict."

I almost spit my beer out at that. "Wait a minute, back up? Did you say years? You mean you're a... a career guy? As in... you weren't drafted – you _signed up_?"

"Yes, that's right. November, 1943."

"Holy crap! You're regular army?"

Steve smiles over the top of his sketchpad. "I forget, you get a lot of draftees and volunteers round this way."

"Yeah, you're looking at one. The former, that is."

Steve chuckles as he rubs at his drawing with a finger. "Oh, you don't say, Mister 'Hawaiian shirt on an army base, contraband beer in his tent, making a pass at the replacement clerk...'"

"Ha!" He's getting bolder. I like it... "I could say the same about you. I mean, no offence but you don't _look_ like an army kinda guy..."

His face falls, and I get the awful impression that I've just hurt his feelings. "That's what they said at the enlisting office. It took me seven tries to get past the medical."

I can't help but laugh at that. "And you're telling me you didn't just take that as some sort of... sign from the heavens, a fantastic favour on the part of the infinite wonder of the universe and just... go and get on with your life?"

He shrugs to the negative, not taking his eyes off the paper.

"Why not?"

"I wanted to do something."

"That's a fair answer."

There's a pause for a moment as I try not to shovel myself in any deeper.

"How about you?" The question is innocuous and ambiguous, and Steve remains hidden behind his pad as he crouches on the floor.

"'How about me' what?"

"Didn't you want to?"

"Want to what?"

"Do something?"

I know what he's asking. The reference is unspoken. He's trying so hard to be unassuming, unpresumptuous, non-judgemental. He's acting like it doesn't _mean_ anything to him. But I can tell it goes against every fibre of his tiny little being. I can't blame him – The War was a big deal for all of us. And I don't mean this war, I mean _The_ War, capital T, capital W. So significant it garners use of the definite article even when I myself am standing in an entirely different war – sorry, 'police conflict' – in an entirely different decade on an almost entirely different continent. I can't blame him for asking. I've heard a lot of reactions over the years, some of which I've even come to agree with.

"I wanted a lot of things back then," I explain, perhaps a little obtusely. "I wanted to go dancing and I wanted to get drunk. I wanted to drive a Buick. I wanted to kiss Gregory Peck _and_ Betty Grable, preferably both at once." That gets a laugh. "And I wanted to finish college, go to medical school, become a doctor... do a whole lot things that didn't involve getting shot at, bombed, shelled, stabbed, or otherwise blown away while running around a battlefield in Western Europe essentially trying to do the same job I'm doing here only out of a small canvas shoulder bag with a big red cross on it."

He's quiet, still sketching, but he hasn't thrown me out yet or called me a coward, so I guess we're still on speaking terms.

"I was a spoilt kid," I find myself explaining – I'm not sure why – in the silence. "Sheltered. And I was... selfish – I think that's the word for it – in my twenties, over a lot of things. So no, when the opportunity came up to abandon all that was good and comfortable in life and go and pursue a grand and meaningful cause-slash-death in the global conflict arena, I did _not_ exactly leap at it." I pause for a moment, trying to order my thoughts. "If my number'd come up, I'd have gone," I assert, meaning it. "I can promise you that much, because look, my number _has_ come up, and here I am, sipping Japanese beer in a hospital building made out of corrugated iron and a couple of dozen two-by-fours in a mud-hole in South-East Asia..." My fingers go to my dog tags, and my serial number trips through my brain like a mantra. ' _19905607_.' I shudder. "I might make a few jokes from time to time, but I'm no draft dodger. I may have cried, kicked, protested, written, re-written, begged, fought and pleaded, but I didn't dodge." I look over at Rogers. His brow is wrinkled in concentration, or in thought, but he says nothing. I continue: "I don't _like_ the draft, I think they should do away with it. Think about it – if the only people they can ever send to war are the people who want to go, then you're going to get shorter wars! And fewer dead soldiers..."

The silence continues, and just for a moment, I see his eyes glisten and his lip tremble. Oh... Oh, that's it. He's lost someone. Someone close. Special? I won't ask. Just... move on.

"I couldn't do what you did," I tell him with absolute sincerity. "You're a bigger man than I'll ever be, and I mean that."

He sets his pencil down and starts doing some strategic smudging. "I don't know about that."

"I'm serious! You volunteered for this! While I was still... I can't even remember _where_ I was in 1943 – it was _that_ bad! Probably drunk in some dance hall somewhere!"

He chuckles, and makes a small finishing flourish in the corner of his work with his pencil. "Well," he declares, holding his book in front of him for a better look, "I couldn't do what you do either." He clambers to his feet, massaging his legs – oh, how I wish he would let me do that for him! – and returns to sit beside me holding the book to his chest. "But if it makes you feel any better, I'm not exactly seeing active duty here."

"Well... no. But you did at _some_ point right?"

"Interesting little thing about how I got in: turns out you can bribe the right people to look the other way when you show up at the draft office with polio, TB and asthma on your record, but once you get in they stick you behind a desk and make you sort the paperclips for a living. I may be here voluntarily, but I'm no hero. If they let me out on a battlefield, I'd be a liability."

I can't help but put my arm around him. It's risky, sat here in the hospital lobby with Potter on night duty in post-op, but I figure he needs it. And... oh, but he smells beautiful! I don't know what he washes with but it sure isn't that army-issue crud they give to us! Holding him like this, I want to bury my face in his hair! "I don't think you're a liability," I tell him gently.

"Oh no?" There's a playful note to the melancholy in his voice.

"No." I give him a squeeze. "I think you're a _marvel_."

He ducks his head and stares at his book. "I wouldn't know about that," he says, humbly.

I feel him tense up, and I remove my arm, and tap his sketchbook with one finger. "Are you gonna let me look then?"

He looks up at me, and do I detect a hint of pride as he opens the book? I think I do...

"There you are."

"I... _oh_!" This is not what I'd expected. He's drawn... "My hands, huh?"

"Yeah."

One clasped loosely around the beer bottle, the other resting on my knee beside it. I don't even know how he even captured this, knowing how much I talk with my hands. The detail is exquisite – not just every line and every hair and every callous, but the labelling on the bottle, the creases of my clothes, my dog tags... everything.

"I like your hands," he says by way of explanation. "They're good hands. Surgeon's hands. They do good work and I thought they deserved to be... y'know."

I'm blown away by this. There's something in his drawing me that feels almost _worshipful_ , and I don't know what to say.

"You like it?"

"I think it's beautiful." I look away from the picture and right at him, and I hope my double meaning has made itself clear.

He turns away from me.

"Like I said," he continues, "I like details. In life drawing class, I always loved to just... fixate on some unusual feature – hands, feet, arms, faces – while everybody else was drawing the whole person. I mean, the big picture is fine but... you miss a lot of good stuff that way."

I quirk my eyebrows at him. "Life drawing?"

"Yeah."

The point sails over his head. "With... naked people?" I shoot him a lewd grin.

He rolls his eyes. " _Yes_ , sometimes."

"Did you ever...?"

He makes an exasperated sound and smacks me in the arm. " _No_ , because I'm not a child!"

"I would have."

"Case in point."

"Hey!"

"You're the one who asked."

"Come on, let me see some more. I bet you've got naked people in here!" I cosy up, playfully pretending to wrestle the book from him, but he slams it shut on my prying fingers.

"No. I don't." He's perfectly composed, and when he sits up straight, he's somehow taller than when he's standing up.

"Then why won't you show me?"

"Because you're being an ass." He quirks a grin at me, like he's enjoying teasing me.

"Yeah, I do that sometimes."

"I noticed."

"It all adds to my charm!" I cock my head and flutter my eyelashes at him.

He regards me with a serious, pondering frown. "I guess it does. If you act like an asshole often enough, the rest of your personality actually comes as something of a relief."

My jaw drops. Did he just...? "Ouch!" I clutch my chest in mock agony as he stands up to retrieve another beer. "Don't cut yourself on that wit, Rogers!"

He smirks at me and tosses the book onto the bed. "Put that back where you found it, huh?" Looks like art class is done for the night. Oh, good, maybe next period will be anatomy practice! I pick the book up and run my hand over the cover, tracing his name. _Stephen G. Rogers_. "What's the G stand for?"

"What?"

He returns with two fresh beers, and I brandish the bottle opener. "Your middle name. Your initial – G. What's is stand for?"

"Why d'you wanna know?"

" _Oh_ – so it's something embarrassing!"

"No, it's not." He sinks back onto the bed and hands me my beer.

"I bet it is." I crack my beer and hand him the opener. "Gilbert. I bet it's Gilbert."

"How d'you figure?" He grins at me as he opens his own.

"You look like a Gilbert."

"I do not!"

"Tell me then! Or I'll keep calling you Gilbert."

He rolls his eyes.

"You're not gonna tell me?"

"No! It's too amusing watching you trying to guess and get yourself all wound up." He laughs as he puts his bottle to his lips, and I wish more than anything I could kiss him. He's... perfectly infuriating in every way.

"You're impossible to tease, you know that?"

He shrugs. "I guess you get desensitised after a while."

I wince on his behalf, and suddenly regret my relentless seduction-by-taunting. "Sorry. Am I too much?"

He surveys me over his beer bottle. "No. It's okay coming from you. Some people are... well, you know how it is."

I smile, and he smiles, and we sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying one another's company, and, in my case at least, the warmth of Steve's thigh against my own.

It's nice. It's better than nice. I just...

I want to kiss him. Desperately. He's _beautiful_ like this, perfect lips, sipping his beer beside me like he hasn't a care in the world, and I can't...

I lean close. Put my hand gently on his. His head turns and he looks at me, and my heart does a somersault. "Steve... I..."

Suddenly, he pulls away, sits bolt upright, his head jerking to the left. "Did you just...?"

And then he's up, beer bottle dumped on a nearby cabinet, and he's standing to attention by the bed like McArthur just walked in.

I barely have time to even register the door opening.

It's not McArthur – it's Colonel Potter. But the shock of him walking by less than three feet from the cot where I was about to try and put the moves on his temporary clerk is quite enough.

"As you were, Rogers," the Colonel declares with a wave of his hand, not even looking in our direction.

I shouldn't be so anxious. It's not like we were doing anything, Just two guys, sitting on a cot, drinking beer while one wonders what the other guy's mouth tastes like. Steve sits again beside me, a foot or so further away this time, and fishes the pillow off the floor.

Potter vanishes into the O.R., emerging a moment later with a bottle of medicine. Steve jumps to his feet again, and I slouch in the corner trying to pretend like I'm here for purely innocent purposes. Shaking his head, Potter tuts and gives Steve a friendly nudge. "For the love of God, will you stop, son? You're giving me vertigo!"

Only now he's standing opposite does Potter notice me. "Didn't see you there Pierce."

"You know me, Colonel. I don't stand on ceremony. I figured he was standing enough for both of us."

"Good to see you two getting along!" The old Colonel smiles, and gives Steve a friendly pat on the back. "Once you get used to his sense of humour, he's quite an okay guy, is our Hawkeye."

Steve nods. "I'm trying, Sir. I think it's an acquired taste but I'm getting there."

The Colonel laughs, and I make a mental note to get Steve for that comment later. "Yeah we're getting on really well! I helped him type a report, I brought beer, and he's showed me some of his drawings."

And Potter's eyes migrate several inches up towards his hairline. "Oh? Drawings! Why, you've been here three days and you didn't tell me you were an artist! You'll have to let me take a look!"

I leap in to spare Steve's blushes. "Oh, actually, he doesn't..."

"Of course, Sir!" And the next thing I know, Steve's leaning over me and fishing the book out from under the blankets once more.

I sit there redundant while Potter 'ooh's and 'ahh's and talks about shading and scale and other things that I wish I'd said instead of teasing him over nude life drawings and wanting to know his middle name.

"You know, son, I'm sure you could do some amazing things with charcoal!"

"I've wanted to, Sir, but pencils are cheaper."

"I had a brother-in-law worked for the fire department – got me all the charcoal I needed! Lovely medium, get a real contrast. Have you seen the ones hanging in my office?"

"Yes, Sir, it was the first thing I noticed!"

"You know, I'd love to get your opinion... I've got a few minutes before rounds. Would you do an old man a favour?"

As they turn away, I realise our night is done, and I clamber from the cot with my beer and my wounded pride. "I'm gonna turn in!" I announce to their departing backs.

"Oh yes," Potter replies from the door as he snaps the light on to his office. "Morning shift, you'll want to hit the old hay. Goodnight, Pierce!"

Steve shoots me an apologetic glance over his shoulder. "Night!" he echoes.

But I can't help but smile when he mouths ' _I'm sorry_!' at me...

The door closes, and I can hear a muffled discussion of texture and horses and... oh, who cares? With a sigh, I knock back my beer and drop the empty into the office trash can. The two remaining bottles sit neatly in their case on Steve's desk, untouched. I could take them back, maybe as a peace offering to BJ, or...

Picking up a pen and a piece of paper, I scrawl a small note on the lower half, then fold the paper to hand neatly over the side of the case. My simple message – ' _For tomorrow night?_ ' – seems innocent enough, but it's possibly the most inelegant way to ask a guy for a second date.

Nonetheless, given the circumstances, it's the best I can do. As Potter and Rogers continue their talk, I slip out and make my way glumly to my own cold, miserable little tent.

* * *

It's all quiet on the Incheon front – Frank's off to Hot Lips country, and BJ is probably knocking back coffee and cola over in the mess tent in his efforts to shunt his body clock onto night shift time – and so, rather than stew in my own disappointment, I disrobe, bath-robe, and trudge off to the showers for a little underwater navel-gazing.

Lather. Gargle. Rinse. Repeat. Well, look at that, there was a human being underneath all that! Quite a handsome one, too. Although I swear I can still smell that aftershave! Shivering, I pull my robe back on over my clammy skin, grab my washbag and retreat to my little canvas haven. And by haven I mean hell-hole.

"Well, look who it is! I thought you were having a late night!"

BJ's voice disturbs the carefully preserved tranquillity of my self-pity and I toss a response over my shoulder as I continue on my merry. "I could say the same to you."

"Ah, my night's barely begun. How was yours? Surprised to see you turning in so early."

He's following me, hands in the pockets of his fatigues, like he's trying to act casual. I'm already bristling. "We're taking things slow," I reply as vaguely as I can, swinging my washbag by the strap in an effort to appear nonchalant, which I'm really, really not.

"Little late for that isn't it?"

I pause at the door of the Swamp to shoot him a haughty look. "A gentleman reserves the right to change his mind."

BJ smirks at me. "Yeah right, like it was _you_ that did the mind-changing!"

I don't respond to that. Probably best if I just let him believe I've struck out and I'm sulking. Not that it's far from the truth anyway...

We retreat to the sanctuary of the Swamp, and BJ begins to prepare a pot of coffee to continue his push for all-night wakefulness. "Well," he declares, "if you ask me, I think it's for the best."

Reclining on my cot, I blink at him. "For the best? What?" What does he know? What did I tell him? Oh, yes, that's right, Catholic girl, new nurse, right. "Oh, right, yeah. Yeah, probably."

"I mean... there's clearly no future there."

"No, I guess not..." I toy anxiously with one of my magazines, waiting for this conversation to be over. It's _really hard_ to engage in serious talk when one of you is lying through his teeth to the other and the other doesn't even know it!

"And I don't understand how you even... well, y'know?"

Huh? What? I lower my magazine and squint at him. "How? You want to know _how_? Did your _father_ not have this conversation with you when your chest first started sprouting that carpet?"

"Oh, come on, you know what I mean."

The magazine hits the floor. "No, I _don't_ , BJ, what _do_ you mean?"

He looks away, silent for a moment, and my stomach starts to churn. I can't shake the feeling that he's onto something.

"C'mon Beej, out with it! What do you know? Who told you? _What_ did they tell you?"

He seems to mull something over, and then, with a weary sigh, he sinks onto his cot and gives me the most... apologetic, concerned look I've ever seen. "I overheard the nurses talking about her. Your current... current? The Catholic?"

I try very hard not to give anything away, although I can't help but feel my face is twitching.

"The new nurse?" BJ's voice switches up a notch. He seems... angry? Yes, I'd say this is anger. "The _Belgian_? Religious? Doesn't speak a word of English? Any of this ringing any bells?"

Oh. Oh crap. I made up a person and she's somehow popped into existence. Was it magic? Am I God? No, just an incredibly unlucky son of a bitch... "Yeah... that's her!" I guess it'll _have_ to be, now!

" _Hawkeye_!" And he's up again, and he's waving his hands, and he's shouting and... oh this is bad. "I mean how can you even _communicate_? And _don't_ try and tell me some crap about how love is the same in all languages, because this isn't love – it's _you_!"

"Oh, well, you see–"

"Does she even _know_? Does she know what you're _like_? Does she know what to expect? Or maybe you've got a hidden skill there I didn't know about, you tell me? What's French for 'one night stand'?"

"No, Beej, you got it all wrong!"

He hesitates for a moment and stares at me. "You're really in love with this girl?"

I pause. I can't quite bring myself to fabricate an entire fake romance with a girl who I haven't even met, who I've only just learned actually _exists_ , and who can't even confirm or deny said fabrication. A date is one thing, but _love_...?

BJ takes my silence for a denial. " _Hawkeye_!" he shouts again as he sinks to his cot once more. He cradles his head in his hands for a moment, looking for all the world like an exasperated father who just caught his teenage son sneaking a girl into his room. "Look, you know as well as I do that we have completely different lifestyles!"

"You can say that again!"

"And I try not to judge you, I really do. But this?"

I glance sideways at him. "What about it?"

"I think you're taking advantage." He's deadly serious. He's looking at me like he's disappointed and disgusted and confused all at once and I can't begin to defend myself because it's all based on a lie – a lie that _I_ told because the truth would be worse!

"Oh, _come on_!"

"No, hear me out! She _can't understand you_ and if she can't understand you then how do you know if she's okay with it? She could be picturing wedding bells for all you know! Meeting the parents! Raising a family of little bilingual medics!"

"It's not her, okay! It's... it's... it's _Lieutenant Gilbert_!" The name pops into my head by the grace of my earlier teasing over Steve's middle initial.

BJ pauses and makes a face at me. "Nurse _Gilbert_?"

Oh, shit! It's only now that I realise that we actually even _have_ a Nurse Gilbert. We change our nurses more often than I change my socks, and I guess I... lost track. _Damn_! Oh well, I've made up my story now, I may as well lie with it. "Yes! You know, Nurse Gilbert? Short hair, brunette..." Great, I've been so eager to defend myself I've traded in one pretend girlfriend for another! "But _please_ don't say anything to her, because... she'd kill me if she thought you knew."

"Nurse Gilbert?" BJ says again. "She doesn't strike me as very Catholic."

"Yeah, I know, she's... lapsed."

"Ha! You can say that again!"

"But she's still embarrassed! That's why I... tried to make out it was somebody else." I can't even look at him as I finish the lie.

BJ sighs again, and looks about himself, searching for something. At last, he retrieves his coffee cup from beside the still, checks it for mould, and pours himself a coffee from the fresh pot on the stove. "That was a rotten thing to do Hawk – using some poor innocent girl as a cover story for your... _dalliances_."

Oh, that was close to the knuckle. Wincing, I scoop my magazine up. "Yeah, I know, I'm a rotten human being."

"And without her even _knowing_!"

I force an embarrassed smile. "Yeah... but, now you know!"

"I guess I do." He nods, smiles, and then stands there looking at me, sizing me up. "And, all things considered, I'm glad you told me. The truth, I mean."

Silently, I pray for the ground to swallow me up. "Yeah..."

"I realise I... probably shouldn't have pried but... I worry about you, y'know? And I'm touched that you trusted me. And... I'm sorry I forced it out of you like that."

Okay, forget the ground swallowing thing. I want the Chinese to come and drop on a bomb on both of us, right now! "Well, I... feel better having told you, anyway." Lies, _lies_!

He takes a slug of coffee and exhales. "You sure?"

"Oh, yeah! It's a load off my mind." My voice hitches up half an octave and I wonder if it shows that I'm lying through my teeth.

And he gives me the warmest of warm smiles, steps closer, and puts a comforting hand on my arm. "Any time."

"Uh-huh."

I watch him as he potters about with his coffee. I can't relax, can't settle, can't think anything about how damned _awkward_ this whole situation is.

"Are you still planning on staying up?"

He looks at me questioningly, and then a lightbulb goes on. "Oh, right, sorry. Yeah, you... probably want some shut-eye."

"Would be nice!" I beam at him in what I hope looks like good humour.

"Of course, I'm sorry. I'll... go prop up Rosie's for a few hours."

"Thanks." I settle down on my cot, trying to relax. "Oh, and if you see Nurse Gilbert..."

"Oh. _Oh_ , don't worry, I won't mention a thing!"

" _Thank_ you!"

He heads for the door, pauses, and shoots me a look. "Or _will_ I?"

" _Beej_!"

"Okay, okay! You know I wouldn't! God! Don't be so paranoid! I'll see you in the morning!"

He waves a dismissive hand at me and disappears into the compound. Finally, I breathe a sigh of relief, putting my head down and hoping against hope I dream of a tiny, softly spoken office clerk with artist's hands and an inferiority complex, and not of a Belgian nurse in a wedding dress.


	4. Day 4

**Day 4**

Reveille sounds at sun-up, and as usual I pull the pillow over my head and curse every God I can think of that I'm still in Korea.

And then, a second later, I'm up and pulling my boots on, for no other reason than the fact that I know _who's_ blowing that bugle. To hell with it – let's fly in the face of tradition! I _shall_ go to reveille! Why, thank you, Fairy Godmother!

On my way out the door, I nearly collide with Frank on his way back in.

"Morning, Frank!"

"Oh, nerts to you!"

He's spending less and less time here and more time with Margaret. I'm beginning to think he doesn't like us anymore. What's she got that we haven't?

I pause so I can watch him frantically try and pull his fatigues on over last night's underwear. As he sits on his cot to lace his boots, I notice he's got an entire imprint of Margaret's face – lipstick, mascara, blush, the works – down one cheek. She must have fallen asleep on him.

"Uh, Frank, you've got a little..." I gesture vaguely.

He shoots me a look. "I have _not_!"

"Okay, fine, forget it! My father warned me never to argue with a fanatic."

It's a beautiful morning in Korea, but cold. There's a draught going right up my bathrobe. What, you thought I'd actually get dressed for this?

I place myself at the front, where I can get a good view of Steve doing his best imitation of a hamster with his bugle. I can't help but smile – he's adorable! Ridiculous, in this case, but adorable. I catch his eye as he lowers the bugle. He gives me the tiniest of tiny smiles, and then he's 'eyes front' and all business.

I don't take my eyes off him all through the notices. Every now and then, I see him shoot me a glance, carefully disguised as innocent. I smile, and I see him lick his lips, drop his gaze, and blush ever so slightly.

Oh God, this is exquisite! I could do this all day!

He composes himself, lifts his head, and shoots me one of those steely ice-looks of his, all narrowed eyes and a serious frown. It's a look that says 'behave yourself'.

I grin, and very, _very_ subtly, I blow him a kiss.

* * *

"You know, I really hope this isn't my fault," I tell him a few minutes later in the O.R. after I've gotten his asthma attack under control.

It was hard to tell, honest. There we were, making eyes at one another, and then Potter asked him to blow his bugle again and about halfway through he started gasping for air. Fortunately there was an attending physician on hand who generously offered to bundle him off to the O.R. and give him a good going over.

"Oh sure," he says, still wheezing a little as he clutches his inhaler, "you'd love that, wouldn't you?"

Aw, shucks. It was just the bugle. Not my devilish and take-your-breath-away (literally) charm. "You sure? Not even a little bit?"

He scoffs, but refuses to comment further on my teasing. Instead, he draws his attention to my wardrobe. "You're supposed to come to reveille in uniform, you know?"

"I did. Look – it says 'USMD' on my bathrobe. And that's embroidered!"

This earns a laugh. "How are you still here?"

"I ask myself the same question every morning."

"In any regular outfit, you'd have been discharged and court-martialled for repeated insubordination."

"Hey! I'm _perfectly_ capable of being subordinate! For the right kind of guy..." I waggle my eyebrows at him and set about retrieving a stethoscope from a nearby cart while he stifles a giggle.

"Are you even wearing anything under that robe?" he asks as I return, with just a _hint_ of suggestiveness.

"Why don't you pull my cord and find out?"

To my surprise, he reaches over and grabs the cord around my waist... and pulls me a little closer before letting go. We're playing with fire here. "Why don't you do what you're _supposed_ to be doing and check my respiration?" He gives me another steely glare, but it has to be said, I think I'm developing an immunity.

"You're right, let's be thorough here – take off your shirt and say 'ah'."

I expect him to blush again, but it seems like this immunity to one another's defences is going both ways. He smirks at me, leans back, and – heaven help me! – whips both shirt and undershirt off over his head and dumps them on the table beside him. And then he sits there, as if daring me to do something.

Only I daren't. I can't help but feel that, beyond this strange dance we're engaged in, there's a hesitancy in him that I don't know how to deal with. Part of me knows that if I wanted to I could probably lean in and kiss him right now, and I don't think he'd even object all that much, but that feels somehow... _cheap_. We're building to something here and I want to see what it is. We're toying with each other, but I like the game, the push-me-pull-you of it, the teasing and the daring of one another, the _risk factor_ : it's all so enjoyable! To rush straight through to the prize at the end would be to miss half the fun! And then there's the sense I get from him that he's not quite ready for that; that all this playful flirtation and evasive tomfoolery is a cover for a very real and very acute _fear_ of what might happen if we actually cross that line. And I don't want to think what sort of a man I'd be if I didn't respect that.

So instead, I just look. I stand and I look at all five-foot-four, ninety five pounds of him, pale and skinny and _beautifully_ imperfect, sitting there in front of me, shoulders shrugged forward, slouching towards me with his hands clasping the edge of the table. He's got the look of someone who's been made all too aware of the fact that he's not much to look at, but also of someone who has long since stopped caring. And so help me, I think that's irresistible! His delicate body seems a reflection of the delicate soul within, and suddenly his disrobing in front of me like this feels far less like teasing and more like an _honour_. I want to worship him and treasure him and protect him (among other things) and the fact that right now I really can't do anything except check his heart rate and listen to his lungs makes me want to do it all the more!

He catches me staring, and pulls my stethoscope, and no, that's not a euphemism. "You're supposed to be checking me out?"

I lean a little closer. "I thought I was."

The innuendo makes him smirk a little and wrap his arms round himself, suddenly self-conscious in a way he wasn't a few moments ago when he whipped his shirt off.

I smirk back and warm up my stethoscope. "Okay, hold your body against my instrument and practice your heavy breathing."

He laughs at that, and relaxes a little, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

I press the stethoscope to his chest and listen.

He sits quietly, like a well behaved patient. Well, except for the look in his eyes as he watches me, and don't think I hadn't noticed that, Rogers! And when that doesn't work, he leans a little closer and whispers: "At least we're even now."

I try not to laugh. "Quiet now, no flirting with the doctor."

He gives a bark of a laugh that makes me wince at the sound it makes through my stethoscope.

"Okay. Lungs sound... interesting. Heart rate... _fast_ but regular." I quirk an eyebrow at him and he stares straight back at me. I check the back, trying not to get too distracted by the curve of his spine, the way his vertebrae protrude just enough to look fragile but not enough to be a concern, and the _delightful_ little dip in the small of his back when he sits up straight. I wonder what it would be like to press my hand against that, feel his body sink against mine...

He coughs.

"Okay!" I drop the stethoscope and return to face him. "Well, it has to be said, if you were one of ours, I'd be sending you home."

He huffs at me and rolls his eyes.

" _But_ I won't be doing that."

" _Good_." He sits back, pouting a little at my suggestion. "Because if you tried I would have to seriously reconsider our friendship."

I sigh, somewhere in between despondent and wistful, the former because the thought of him continuing to push on with this career path he's chosen makes me _ache_ inside, and the latter because the determination he shows is so admirable, I think might be falling. Surrendering to hopeless romanticism for a moment, I rest a hand either side of his hips on the table and lean in, gazing at him, nose to nose now. He doesn't back away, and I'm actually looking _up_ at him from this angle, which makes a nice change. I should do this more often. Not only does he look handsome this way, but it also reminds me of that other side of him that _doesn't_ need my protection; the man that's spent almost ten years in the army despite everything the world's thrown at him, and still refuses to admit he's done enough; the side that's tough and perseverant and determined and makes _me_ look like a cowardly little kid in comparison.

"You know," I tell him as I admire the curve of his lips and the blush in his cheeks and the way he gazes down at me through his long eyelashes, "I really don't get you, you know?"

"Well," he replies with a smile, "that's okay, because you don't have to."

"I know. But I _want_ to."

He laughs a little and looks away. "Yeah, well... I guess you probably want a lot of things." He pulls back from me and turns to pick his clothes up.

"You got that right..." I pull away, moving one hand so I'm not boxing him in, but still leaning close to his side. Nervous, I wet my lips and take a deep breath. "I want to kiss you."

He doesn't move; doesn't respond. He doesn't pull away or make a joke, but he doesn't lean closer or turn towards me either. He just sits quietly, eyes forward, like he's lost in his thoughts and he's barely registering my words. But I know he's heard me. His hands are shaking a little as he messes with his clothing.

I push a little, just a little, trying for a response, even if it's a refusal. "I could do _that_. Right here, right on this table."

I see his adam's apple bob, and his lips move ever so slightly before he pulls his undershirt on.

Oh Christ, that's intoxicating! I lower my voice, and move just a shade closer, watching as he dresses, pulling soft cotton over softer skin. It's seductive, almost, like a reverse striptease. "I could put my arms around you and press my lips against yours and... and _hold_ you and kiss you until we forget where we were, and nobody would ever know."

He looks at me, almost perfectly calm except his pupils have dilated and his breathing seems a little heavier. "Is that what you want?"

Okay, now _my_ heart's pounding! He's perfectly restrained but I think I just seduced _myself_! For just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to do just that, to feel that slender body in my arms, the softness of his skin, his lips against mine... how I'd lean into him and he'd fall back a little, bracing himself with one hand, pulling me against him... "I want to," I tell him in hushed tones, leaning ever closer. I can smell the sweetness of him: that damned soap he uses that smells so good when everything else around here smells of blood, sweat and gunpowder. Bravely, I reach out and rest a hand on his thigh. "Do you want me to?"

I see his shoulders drop a little and I'm all but ready to go in for a kiss when he turns away from me again, staring at the floor. "I don't think we should," he says firmly as he pulls his shirt on, buttoning it with slightly unsteady fingers.

"Oh." Okay, well that's the understatement of the year. I feel like I've just been punched in the gut. "Why not?"

He frowns, still not looking at me. "Twelve and six," he says, all matter of fact. "Doors. Windows, two through four, eight through ten."

Damn. Why does he have to be so _sensible_? "Well... I'm working 'til three, so does that mean if I come back at five I might get some action?"

That draws a smile, and the tiniest of laughs, but there's something almost... regretful about him right now, and I wish I understood him.

I move away. I know when to stop. Coiling up my stethoscope, I place it on the cart and try not to watch him as he slips off the table, tucking his shirt into his fatigues.

"Have any of your doctors every suggested steroids?" I ask as he slips off the table.

"Are you telling me I need to bulk up?" He sounds almost offended.

"No, for the asthma! An atomiser's great for attacks, but you could manage your condition far better with pills."

"I'd need a prescription for that." He brandishes his inhaler at me. " _This_ I can get over the counter."

"But haven't any of your doctors..."

"As far as my doctors are concerned, I don't need treatment. I'm on permanent desk duty, but if they start putting notes on my file that I need meds... things could get messy. I'm treading a fine line as it is."

I can't help but shake my head a little. I've heard of guys risking their lives on the battlefield, but this guy's risking his for his desk and his paperclips. There's a cruel, cruel irony in that and I'm not sure if I want to hand him a medical discharge or a rifle.

Good job it's not up to me to decide.

"Look, just... leave me the details of your unit when you transfer out, okay? I'll make sure I get something shipped out to you. Off the books, off the record."

"Is that... legal?"

"No, but I'm the one who gets in trouble for it, so don't worry."

He blinks at me and shakes his head firmly. "No, I... I couldn't ask you to do that."

"Then it's a good thing you didn't ask!"

I mark him as all clear on my paperwork and take myself off to get ready for my morning duty, leaving him alone to contemplate a few things.

* * *

My shift drags. _Oh_ , how it drags! It's _such_ a drag, if Klinger were here, he'd accuse it of stealing his line. I keep cutting through the office to fetch things from the O.R. just so I have an excuse to see him and smile at him. Just all part of the joy of workplace flirtation. And I know he enjoys it as much as I do.

"Disturb me again, and I'll throw something at you."

See? Putty in my hands, I tell you!

My shift passes without incident – if it weren't for the fact that I would never wish ill on my patients, I'm almost inclined to say that a sudden post-operative complication would have been a welcome distraction – and so I'm left twiddling my thumbs until Frank sails in to hand over at two.

The last hour is the worst because I have an hour with Frank, making rounds, disagreeing with everything I say, sabotaging my progress, and generally being... well, _Frank_. At last, I'm able to leave the patients in his less-than-capable hands and slink off to entertain myself.

Or, more specifically, slink off to entertain a certain Sergeant who's tucked up in the next room, _click-clack_ ing away on his typewriter.

But first, I take a detour to the showers. Might as well freshen up for my favourite clerk, especially as on this occasion I can't mask the war with cologne without choking him. BJ is still sleeping soundly when I stop by for my washbag, towel and robe, but after I'm all squeaky clean and spruced up he's finally in the land of the living, sitting on the edge of his cot, searching for those canoes he keeps his enormous feet in.

He's not with it, rubbing his face with the back of one hand and groaning like he's hung over.

"Laundry lady came," he says by way of greeting.

Lo and behold, there's a pile of clean clothing, neatly folded, lying on my bed. "Ah, someone tell Kim Hui Yung she's my new favourite gal!"

"She wasn't happy with you. Your dirties were all over the floor."

Oops! Normally I try and bag my stuff up nice and tidy for the laundry lady, but I guess I've had... other things on my mind lately. "I'm surprised she took 'em. Normally when I do that, all she gives me is a stern talking to." 'Talking to' is a tame word for what Mrs Kim actually does. It involves ear grabbing and screaming in a strange combination of both English and Korean, most of which involves profanity. She taught me half the Korean I know – the indecent half.

"You got lucky. I was awake. I picked up after you."

"Thanks, Beej."

As BJ tries to haul himself into the land of the living, I turn away and start making myself pretty for Steve. Foam, razor, like so. No aftershave this time.

"Hawkeye?"

BJ's voice breaks my concentration and I glance over my shoulder at him. "Hm?"

He looks at me, his eyes all squinty, his mouth twisted into some bizarre grimace like he's in pain. He's on his last day off before the night shift, now, and while his efforts to rest his body clock seem to be paying off, his body seems to be fighting back. He seems to think really hard about something, then he just shakes his head at me. "Never mind."

I turn away again. BJ's brain is clearly not quite firing on all cylinders yet. "Look, if it's about last night," I announce, happily launching into the conversation on his behalf, "don't worry about it. I appreciate what you were trying to do, so let's move on. Can we do that?"

I glance back at him. He's still making that same face, but, after a while, his eyes closed and his head nods and I think we have an accord. "Sure."

"Good. Great! And remember the deal – don't talk to Nurse Gilbert! Not about me, not about what happened... in fact, just don't talk to Nurse Gilbert _at all_."

BJ blinks sleepily at me. "I won't."

"Good." So far, plan B is sticking...

* * *

I wander into Steve's office wearing a smile and a fresh shirt and not a spot of aftershave. Steve's doing his 'ice maiden' routine again, sitting at his desk and pretending to look right through me with that frosty look of his. Time to see if I can't melt him.

I perch on the edge of his desk and kick back, watching him work.

Without taking his eyes off his work, he somehow proceeds to size me up: "You've shaved."

"I had to. I'm planning on wearing a skirt to our big dance tonight."

He smirks at his paperwork.

"I took a shower, too. With soap and everything."

"I thought you smelled different."

"You like it?"

"Well, I'm not hacking up a lung..."

Oh, he's such a tease. "It's the little things, am I right?"

He laughs this time. "Can you pass me those papers over there, please?"

"Which papers?"

"The ones you're sitting on."

"Oh. Right." I move my ass and give him his papers. "You mind my being here? I mean I'm not in the way or anything?"

"Sure, as long as you don't sit on anymore of my work."

Beaming, I sit back down, legs swinging. "I promise."

"Although it can't be all that great in terms of entertainment."

"I'm just enjoying the view."

Another tiny little smile from him as he continues his work, but he does go a little pinker around the ears, and I desperately want to lean in and nibble his lobe.

I turn away, partly to remove the temptation to start licking or biting parts of him, and partly so my presence might potentially be deemed at least vaguely heterosexual by anybody who happens to walk in. "You get my note last night?" I ask him.

"I did," he replies, nodding towards the beer that's still sitting on his desk, the note now removed. A pause, and then, "I finish at eight."

My heart leaps. That's only... four hours away! Four hours and then I get to steal him away for... whatever it is he might let me do! "I can hardly wait."

"I'll have to shower first though..." he adds, nonchalantly.

"I'll come with you," I reply with a leer. "It's a communal shower. I can do that."

"But it's the enlisted men's shower time."

"I'll kick the other guy out. I'm a Captain, I can pull rank."

"And who's to say I'm gonna let you?"

"You're a hard, hard man, Sergeant Rogers."

"I know." Steve smirks to himself and loads a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. "So you'll just have to sit in your tent for a half hour and... use your imagination."

I squeeze myself and grin at him, probably a tad lecherously but he doesn't seem to mind. "Oh, you _tease_ , Rogers! You're driving me wild."

"Cool it!" he hisses at me.

I'm not sure if he heard something or if it was just good timing, but a moment later the door behind me opens and I hear BJ and Potter approaching. I sit upright again and try and look less like a horny teenager salivating over his crush.

"They sent it _all_? Now? In one shipment? On _three_ trucks? Who's organising these idiots?"

"Now now, Hunnicutt, we've been calling for some of these supplies for months. Let's just thank our lucky stars they've arrived." The Colonel notices me, but apparently doesn't think my presence unusual. "Ah, Pierce. Glad you're here. We've got a convoy just pulled up in the compound with about two months' worth of orders on it. Might need a few extra hands to unload and organise. Are you doing anything right now?"

I glance at Steve, and try to look innocent. "Uh, no... no."

"Perhaps you and Hunnicutt could help the men out. Those non-coms are terrific workhorses when it comes to moving boxes, but I'm sure they could use a few pointers when it comes to sorting the medical supplies."

My heart sinks – and here I was hoping to spend the next few hours watching Steve type orders, make calls, and organise files... all manner of exciting things. "Oh... sure, we can..." I gesture to BJ, who is now looking slightly more awake, and has mercifully put some clothes on. He nods in agreement.

"Good men!" Potter smiles curtly and turns to Steve, who is already standing to attention like a good little soldier. "Rogers?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"At ease, son. There's no need for all that."

"Thank you, Sir. What can I do?"

"First of all, I'd like to see that liquor removed from your desk and put somewhere out of sight. I know I'm a big softie in comparison to the big guns, but your office is not a drinking establishment."

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." He quickly tucks the remaining bottles out of the way under his desk.

"Uh, that was my fault, Colonel!" I pipe in, suddenly feeling guilty. "I brought those in, and I... uh..."

"No, no!" The Colonel holds his hand up and gives me a sombre look. "I don't care where it came from, the man is responsible for his own desk." With me put neatly in check, he turns back to Steve. "Now, all those supplies have to go somewhere, so I want you go get everybody organised, and all departments neatened up – none of that 'hiding stuff in the closet where the Colonel can't see it'. I want post-op, O.R., nurses' stations, kitchen, linens, lab, and pre-op all organised. I'll make a start on my office."

"Not a problem, Sir. I'll see to it." He salutes. Oh, hell, even that's starting to grow on me!

"Good man. Dismissed."

Steve departs, and I have to resist the urge to stare after him like a lovesick puppy. Instead, I perch casually on the edge of his desk. "Anything else we can do, Colonel?"

Potter gives us both a stern look. "You're not gonna like this."

BJ rolls his eyes. "Stocktake. He's gonna make someone do a stocktake."

"With a delivery this big, we need to make sure we know what we've got and how much of it."

I groan and roll my eyes. "Stocktake."

"Oh, I knew it!" BJ cries, waving his hands in the air.

"And they're going to be a while unloading, so it'll probably be a late one."

Oh, damn it! Potter's new delivery is trampling all over my night! Unless...

Why didn't I think of this? A stocktake would be _perfect_ – we can get out of this office and have a couple of hours somewhere private with no windows and nobody sailing past every five minutes using our love nest as a thoroughfare! "I'll do it." I try and look innocent in my offer, although it's harder than you might think: I'm not a lover of boring, repetitive work.

Potter shoots me a quizzical look. He's clearly not used to me volunteering, and I can't blame him – the last time there was a stocktake, I hid in the latrine for three hours. "After an eight hour shift in post-op, _and_ helping unload the trucks? Don't you go overworking yourself – we'll need you surgeons bright-eyed and bushy-tailed if there's another push."

"No, it's fine. I'll take Rogers – he's the efficient type. We'll be done in no time." Yes, no time at all... and the less time it takes the more time we get to dedicate to whatever else we can do in the supply shed while we're pretending the first part took longer...

"I don't know, Pierce. That boy's been working his socks off ever since he got here. I wouldn't want to put any more on his plate."

"He won't mind. I'll make it fun." Yeah, you bet I will...

"Oh yes, you two seem to be getting along now. Well, you let him know it's not an order, and so long as you don't poach him before he's finished the daily report."

I grin. "No poaching at all – everything totally legitimate and above board!" I'm a terrible liar, I really am...

BJ casts me a curious glance. "You hate stocktake?"

"I know, but the Colonel's on the night shift, you're on a day off, and Frank only gets grumpy if he misses his communal nap-time."

"No, no, wait a minute!" BJ holds up both hands. " _I'll_ do the stock take! The Colonel's right – you pulling a sixteen hour day when we could be due another batch of wounded any minute is just _stupid_. I'll do it. I need something to do if I'm going to stay awake all night anyway."

Damn it, BJ... "And you think this is a good way to do that? I give it an hour, and you'll be asleep."

"No, no, Hunnicutt's right. You take a night off. You'll need it if there's a push on. Now get to it – I've got two cabinets to organise."

Potter leaves us alone, and I try to resist the urge to shoot BJ a glare. I don't succeed, but it turns out he's beat me to it.

"What's that look for?" I ask him.

There's silence for a moment, and then he shakes his head. "Nothing," he says. "I just... never mind."

* * *

As per the instructions of our silver-haired but diminutive leader, I spend my afternoon helping with crates and directing corpsmen and generally having a lousy time. Before long, the effects of my afternoon ablutions have perished under an onslaught of sweat and dust. My fresh shirt is filthy, my hair limp and oily, and even my fingernails are harbouring dirt (and I'm normally able to keep them mercifully clean, as is a surgeon's prerogative.) As our task finally winds to a close, and evening draws on, I can think of nothing other than dashing for the showers and attempting to redeem my former freshness, but am foiled as Corporal Goldman cruelly switches the sign outside the shower tent and declares the enlisted men's shower time officially open.

Damn.

Ah well, any port in a storm. I'll just have to make do, and so I duck into the Swamp to change my shirt and wash up.

BJ is just grabbing a brief respite, reclining on his cot with one of Peg's letters while I strip to the waist to wash my sweaty pits with this morning's shaving water.

"You miss shower time?" he deduces from my rather clumsy attempts at cleanliness.

"Yeah," I reply with a grimace.

He turns over a page. "Gotta make yourself pretty for Nurse Gilbert."

"Naturally!"

"I wouldn't worry too much. I'm sure she's used to it. Not too many guys on army bases smelling of roses."

Oh, I wouldn't know about that. I can name one who does. "How come you're here? I thought you were taking stock?"

"I will be – once Rogers fetches me the delivery receipts."

 _Fetches_? As in he's coming _here_? And I'm... and my quarters look... I believe 'filthy' would be the word for both. Subtly, I turn away and begin trying to tidy up my corner of the Swamp, tucking my dirty magazines under the bed with my dirty socks. "We're supposed to have receipts for stocktake?"

"Yup."

"I don't think Radar even looked at one."

"I think he used them as lining for his rabbit hutch."

My tidying is all but finished by the time Steve graces us with his presence. BJ lets him in, and it's only when I see him glance I my direction that I remember I'm still half undressed.

"Did I come at a bad time?"

Okay, now it's _my_ turn to blush. Little fink! I'll get him for that! Later, when BJ isn't looking..."

"Ignore him, he's just showing off," BJ cracks as he closes the door behind Steve and plonks himself by the stove to go through the papers.

"You have a still," Steve observes with a nod in the direction of the aforementioned equipment as I pull an undershirt on to cover both my embarrassment and my sorry excuse for an upper body.

"We do!" I smile proudly, and then wish I'd denied it in case we're too anti-establishment for the likes of him and I'm about to sabotage our whole relationship.

"I thought liquor in personnel quarters was contraband." He raises his eyebrows and gives me his best disapproving look.

"Well technically it's not liquor..." I shrug with weak smile. "It's really more like..."

"Medicine!" BJ jumps in.

"I was going to say paint thinner, but that's better."

"Paint thinner's more accurate though."

"Clinical supplies... cleaning chemical... whichever floats your boat."

"Or poisons your cocktail."

Steve nods and goes back to business. The pair of them talk shop, and I try to act like it's not weird at all to be getting ready for my date while my date has a conversation with my roommate who thinks I'm going on a date with someone else entirely.

In an attempt to maintain my charade, I pick up two shirts. "Friends, Romans, army-men... your thoughts? Blue Hawaiian or neutral check?"

"Hawaiian," BJ says.

"Check," says Steve.

Oh. Oh, _perfect_. Now I can't go with Steve's suggestion without being too obvious and I can't go with BJ's without deliberately going _against_ what I know my date found more attractive!

I drop both on the bed. "You guys are a great help!"

"Okay, so I think I got this!" BJ announces at last. "So the pink copies are what we got in today, the white ones with the chicken scratch are the last take, and the typed forms are the records of units used since the last delivery."

"That's right."

"Huh. And to think we've been doing this wrong since I got here."

"Ditto," I say, picking up a small, handheld mirror so I can try and coax my hair into some sort of style. "I don't think Radar even kept the delivery notes."

"He did," Steve corrects me. "They're filed under 'T' for 'trucks'."

I laugh, shaking my head as I ponder how on earth Steve has managed to navigate Radar's eccentric system of filing.

"You know, I still can't decide what to wear..."

"Shall we call Frank in to give a third opinion?" BJ shoots back, perhaps a little brusque for my comfort.

"Not a chance. He'd tell me to wear my Class As."

"Maybe you should," Steve suggests. "All the girls love a guy in uniform." I look over, and he's glancing up at me with the tiniest of smirks on his face.

That... clever little devil! I carefully shoot him a smile back as BJ pores over his papers. "Maybe another time..."

My pulse racing, I sit down to peruse my other wardrobe options, dragging my footlocker over so I can rummage through the contents.

BJ sighs and rustles his paperwork. "You know, Sergeant, I'd really appreciate some help with this. Would you mind putting in a couple of hours...?"

Oh no! Oh no no! BJ, you're not stealing my date just because the job you volunteered just to kill a few hours for is suddenly more complicated! Not when it was _me_ that volunteered for it in the first place and when _you're_ not even planning on showing him a good time while you're at it!

I see Steve pause for a moment. "Is that an order, Sir?"

Of _course_ it's not! It's BJ! He doesn't _order_ anybody!

And yet he hesitates. I can see it in him – he actually hesitates! Like he's really _that_ desperate! Like he's fully prepared to do that! I can't believe him!

"Ask someone else, Beej. You heard the Colonel." I hope I'm being subtle. And I hope against hope he doesn't try and argue with me based on the excuse _I_ gave earlier.

BJ thinks on it, and then: "No. No, it's not. I was... just asking."

And Steve seems to hesitate, too, like he feels guilty for not jumping to attention. "I'm sorry, Sir. But... if it's optional, I'd really rather not."

BJ gives him a smile, but if you ask me, it looks a little forced. "Not a problem. You go, hit the officers club, or... do whatever you do on your nights off. You're right, I'll ask someone else."

"Sorry, Sir," Steve says again. "Have a good night."

He turns to leave, not saluting and not waiting to be dismissed – clearly he's getting the hang of this place – but pauses at the foot of my bed to glance in my direction.

I look up, and find him staring into my footlocker.

" _The Joy of Nudity_ ," he reads aloud with careful diction and a kind of lazy curiosity.

"What? You wanna borrow it?"

"No thanks," Steve replies, perfectly deadpan, perfectly calm. "I've read that one."

I fall about laughing, and Steve departs without another word. I can't believe how far he's come in just a few days! It's like he's unshakeable now, invincible, at least as far as I'm concerned. Still cackling, I look over to BJ for his reaction.

"You've taught him well," BJ observes, not taking his eyes off his paperwork.

"He's a fast learner," I reply, already wondering what other things Steve might learn just as fast, given half an opportunity and a good teacher... Screw it – I strip off my undershirt and take my silk happi coat out of the footlocker. Time to employ the big guns!

"Hawkeye?" BJ asks quietly as I pull on my luscious, red, slinky coat made of sheer sex appeal and the silk of only the most luscious, nubile worms.

"No."

"Oh, come on!"

"I will _not_ help you with the stocktake you volunteered to do!"

" _You_ volunteered to do it four hours ago!"

"I've made other plans since."

"Right. Nurse Gilbert. How could I forget?"

"Right. Nurse Gilbert. Now you go lie in your bed while I lie in mine!"

BJ scowls and tosses his papers onto his cot, while I finish sorting out my hair. With a little cream, it doesn't look half bad.

"Hawk?"

I look up from my mirror and over to BJ's sullen face as he sits there by the stove, arms folded, enormous feet propped up on the spare cot.

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

I have to laugh, I really do. I mean, I know where he's coming from – I said Gilbert was Catholic, didn't I? – but I can't help but feel there's a real irony here. "Beej, I'm a doctor! I'm always careful! I give the lecture on careful!" It's true – nobody would listen to Henry's, and the Colonel just made everybody feel embarrassed, so I had to take over!

I'm still chuckling to myself as wish him happy stocktaking and depart for the evening.

* * *

I give Steve an hour or so to get ready before I grace him with my red and silky presence, stopping by at the Officer's Club for a swift Martini to steady my nerves.

I've decided, somewhere, in a hazy and non-specific way, that tonight I'm going to do... something. I'm not even sure what. I don't even know what he'd be game to do! I'm fairly sure sex is out of the question, even if we had the supply shed – God, I _wish_ we had the supply shed – but I'm shooting for kissing. Or even just some non-platonic hugging. The only specific aspect I'm sure of is this: I _gotta_ get him out of that office! With a post-op full of soldiers and an on-duty Colonel doing the rounds in the hospital, we just don't stand a chance there! If I get him back to the Swamp, I'm on familiar ground. It's no supply shed, but I know Frank disappears off to visit Margaret as soon as he gets off, and then returns between one and two (presumably, when he... well, 'gets off'). BJ's taking stock in supplies. That gives me three hours of uninterrupted alone time, unless either BJ abandons his post, or Margaret has a headache.

It's a plan. It's solid. It's... safe. Ish.

It's gone nine, so that's an hour. My guy should be ready by now. I finish my drink and take a saunter in the direction of the hospital.

I only hope I don't bump into BJ on my way, or I'll have some explaining to do.

I cut in through the O.R. – I can surprise him this way! – and peek through the window into the office. Ah, there he is!

He's sitting at his desk with his sketchbook open, shading away, looking like he hasn't a care in the world. But I bet I know where his mind's wandering to...

I slip through the door carefully, not letting it make a sound, and, when I reach his desk, I lean in and slip my hands over his eyes. "Guess who?"

He doesn't make a sound, but reaches over to his phone, lifts the receiver, and calmly states: "Colonel Potter? The North Koreans have invaded the camp. I'm afraid I've been taken hostage by Kim Il Sung. Yes, sorry about that. Do you want me to include it in the daily report? I can add it onto the appendix."

I laugh, and release him so I can sit on his desk and watch him work. I love how unshakeable he's become in the past few days! Like he's come out of his shell and I'm watching him blossom!

"What'ya drawing?"

"The Colonel's horse." He holds the book up for me to see. "I started during my lunch break. I wanted to give him a gift as a thank-you for making me feel so welcome here."

"Good idea. Maybe if you strike up a rapport he'll bring you back in next time Radar goes on leave."

I grin, and he shoots me a look over his sketchbook. "I'm sure if it's only for three days, you'll have to just make do with Klinger."

"Oh no, but we _couldn't_! You've _spoiled_ us! Klinger's filing system makes even less sense than Radar's! We've seen the light now, sampled the best, tasted the nectar of the Gods!" Well, not quite, but not for want of trying. "You can't abandon us to alphabetical ruin and... and 'report' spelled with an 'I' and two 'P's!"

Steve chuckles and carefully smudges some shading with his thumb. "Right, because it's the accuracy of the filing system and the adherence of your documentation to the American English Dictionary that's your real concern here..."

"Alright, fine, you can see right through me!"

"Not always," Steve replies, innocent as can be. "Can't tell why you're dressed like a Tokyo bartender, that's for sure." He eyes my outfit and wrinkles his nose.

"Oh, that's easy! It's because I'm preparing the drinks tonight!"

"Huh." Steve licks his lips, and then points to the beer under his desk. "I thought those were our drinks for tonight."

"I got something better." I'm practically bouncing...

He sighs. "It's that paint thinner in your tent, isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be..." I wrack my brain to try and think if I have anything better.

"I'm not really a big spirits-drinker."

"No, you'd have to be a small spirits-drinker."

He kicks me, and I yelp and move away out of range. It's not hard – he's only got little legs.

"Fine, we'll have the beer."

"Beer's here," he counters without taking his eyes off his page, and taps a bottle with his toe.

"Okay, okay..." He's forcing me to be transparent, which is... fair, I guess, although it's playing havoc with my smooth lines and witty, lyrical charm. "I was just thinking... we're kind of _exposed_ here, post-op right through those doors, doctors on duty... and seeing as I have one roommate who's staying up late doing a stocktake and another who'll be disappearing off to visit his girlfriend in about a half hour, I thought I might just invite you back to mine for a drink."

There. I put myself out there. I perch on the desk trying to look cute.

Silence. He continues to sketch.

Oh. He's _teasing_ me. Of course.

"So, what do you say?" I push, hoping he'll say yes and – though I do say so myself – feeling pretty confident he might just do that.

Once again, he doesn't take his eyes off his page. "I guess that depends on what you mean by a 'drink'."

I can't help but laugh. I've already made my feelings pretty clear earlier today! "Are you really gonna make me spell it out?" And then, another possible, awful reason for his coyness dawns on me. "Oh god, you're making me spell it out! You're not some kinda... undercover MP are you? Because if you are, that was a completely platonic drink offer!"

Steve chuckles. "Lucky for you I'm not, because that was a terrible performance."

I was half joking, but my sigh of relief is more real than I'd like to admit. "I know. I get stage fright around adorable guys with perfect, kissable lips."

Another laugh, and this time Steve sets his book down, and actually buries his face in his hands as he giggles and sighs: "Oh my god! This is surreal!" His ears are bright red now, and that urge to nibble them is coming back, hard.

I sidle a little closer... "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem to be complaining..."

He lifts his head a little, no longer hiding behind his hand, and looks at me. "I... guess I'm not."

My heart leaps, and I can't keep the grin off my face. "So what about that kiss? Did I say kiss? I mean drink. But I'm open to either."

He laughs, again, but... its short lived. A moment later, he falls silent, turning away in quiet contemplation, raising a hand to his mouth like he doesn't want to let the words out, and I know what's coming next... "I really can't."

Shit. Shit. "That's okay, our gin's terrible anyway. And I'm happy to skip the drinks if you are." It's a horrible, awkward, dirty quip purely to disguise my embarrassment, and I hope he knows that because it's too late to take it back now.

I'm laughing. He's not.

"Can I ask why?" I'm restrained now, quiet and apologetic, like I can't help but feel I've overstepped just by asking, even after everything we've done and said so far. It's a dangerous game we're playing, and I know all too well the gravity of what I just proposed. "I mean, you don't have to tell me. You don't have to... put it into words. I know how it is. We're not allowed to talk about it, not allowed to act on it... certainly not here! It's never simple trying to make sense of relationships when you're... well, I'm not sure _what_ you are in _that_ sense but I know it took _me_ a long while to figure it out, so... I guess what I'm saying is... I understand how complicated these things are."

I'm talking. Too much. I should let him speak. He probably has a lot to say, a lot to get off his chest...

"Actually, I'm engaged."

Okay, that... wasn't what I expected. I don't know what to say to that, and a grope for a suitable response. "Those chopper pilots – they get all the luck!" That... probably wasn't one.

Steve laughs again, and I'm genuinely relieved that he's taking my clumsy exploration of his rejection so well. "To a woman," he clarifies. "A dental nurse."

I nod, looking away from him so I'm less intrusive, less personal. "I didn't know you liked women, too."

"Well, neither did I for a while."

"And there's nothing wrong with that! I like women. Quite a lot, actually!"

"I know..." There's some bitterness in his voice there, and I can't help but glance at him. "Your reputation precedes you," is all he has to say on the matter, and I nod and look away.

"Yeah, I hear it does that. I've been trying to train it to walk to heel, but... uh..." The joke dies on my tongue and I don't even bother trying to revive it. "So, tell me about your girl?" I ask, trying desperately to make conversation. Probably _too_ hard. Maybe it's pathetic, but I'd like to know a little about who I just got thrown over for!

Steve shrugs. "Like I said. Dental nurse... Navy, actually, on the USS Essex."

I stare at him. "Uh-huh."

"She was assisting at my last appointment – some sort of... temporary loan, or something – and we... stayed in touch."

"Right..." There's something funny about this, and I can't quite put my finger on it.

"She was helping train some of the army nurses, and I happened to be the lab rat..."

"What's her _name_?" I interrupt, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about this whole conversation.

Steve bristles, and I know my discomfort is showing. "Lorraine," he tells me, his tone flat.

"Oh, Lorraine. That's nice..." I shouldn't be doing this. I've opened a wound and I'm prodding it and it's only going to lead to hurt but I can't seem to stop... "Tell me about her?"

More silence. He's still sketching, not looking at me, as if to look at me would be to... give too much away, or drive one or the other of us mad with desire. At last, he shrugs. "There's not much to tell."

That... really bugs me, and I can't help but press him for more. "Blonde? Brunette? Demogorgon?"

"Uh... blonde." He doesn't laugh. "I think. Sort of... red? I don't know. I think she dyes it."

"Uh-huh..." This is maddening. I mean, I know it's none of my business, but... "Do you love her?" I can't believe I'm saying this, can't quite believe I'm really being _this stupid_!

But that's nothing compared to my surprise at his response...

"I guess."

I stare at him, actually swaying slightly. I have to grip the desk out of either shock or anger at how half-hearted he's being about this. "You _guess_?!" I actually laugh – I can't help it! "That's an awful funny way to talk about somebody you wanna marry. What are you going to say at the wedding? 'Do you Stephen Rogers take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?' 'I guess?' Til death us do part, 'I suppose so?' That's not how it's meant to work!" I can hear myself raving, and I can't even pretend to myself that this is purely out of concern for him and his love life. Oh no, I'm hurt. Hurt and angry. Not because I got knocked back, but because I got knocked back over a relationship that clearly doesn't even mean a lot to him! And I know it's not my place to say it, but the words are just coming like a goddamn freight train and oh now I've done it!

He slams his sketchbook onto the table with a bang. "And what would you know?" He glares at me, eyes like steel and a face like thunder. "I don't see _you_ rushing to settle down any time soon!"

"Hey, look! I don't need a _fiancée_ to understand that you don't go into a _marriage_ with an 'I guess' instead of an 'I do'!"

"And I don't need to sleep my way through half of Korea to understand what _commitment_ means!"

"I'm not saying you should! But don't... throw yourself into marriage with the first girl that comes along! That's crazy! You gotta know what you _want_ before you start signing up for a _lifetime_ together!"

Steve's on his feet, and even though he doesn't even have an inch on me when I'm sitting down, I feel so _small_ right now. "And how am I meant to do that?!" He's the one raising his voice now, and I can't say I blame him. "You tell me! They don't exactly hand you a... a guide to understanding romance in basic training!" I see him wipe his eye surreptitiously on the back of his hand, and knowing that I've upset him makes me wince all the more. "All I know is how it's _supposed_ to work! You meet, you date, you write for a while, you go steady, and you get engaged! What else do you expect me to do?"

"Date around! Test the water a little! Do... normal guy things!"

"I _am_ doing normal guy things! I met a girl, we hit it off, and I asked her to marry me! _That's_ normal! It's just not _your_ kind of normal because it doesn't involve fooling around and... and hitting on guys I barely know during medical check-ups! But it's _good_! And it's what works for me! And she's _nice_ , you know?"

" _Nice_? That's the only thing you can say about her is that she's nice?!" I'm shouting again, but so help me I just want him to know he deserves _better_! He deserves more than 'nice' goddamnit, and I can't seem to calm down enough to tell him that in words that aren't making him angry!

"We can't _all_ be six-foot-two surgeons with a string of girls as long as our inseam! And _some_ of us have more to lose by staying single!"

"More to lose? What are you _saying_? What could you possibly have to lose other than... a fiancée you _clearly_ don't give a damn about and... maybe the cheap ring you bought her in a Tokyo flea market!"

"I'm _saying_ that a guy like you can screw around with whoever he likes – men, women, it doesn't matter – and nobody bats an eyelid... because you _look_ the way you do, and you _act_ the way you _act_."

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as–"

"You make _jokes_... about men... _to_ men – to _me_ , in fact, and _about_ me! – in a _MASH unit operating room_! That's how untouchable you are! But guys like me? I've been called a nancy since I was twelve years old, before I even knew what it meant, long before I even thought I might actually _be_ one. And it hasn't stopped. Not even signing up made it stop. In fact, I'd say it's _worse_ , not to mention what might happen if somebody finds out it's _true_. So I figure, a nice safe marriage with a girl I can... hold a conversation with? I'd say that's a pretty good defence."

I look away. He's got that steel gaze on him again and I can't face him right now, I really can't. He's settling, and I just...

"It's not terrible," he insists. "I have it _way_ better than some guys, because I'm not _pretending_!"

"You're not exactly living the dream either..."

"That's _not_ your concern!"

"I know, but..." I shake my head, unable to process just how low he's setting the bar here. "Haven't you ever been in _love_?!"

I thought it would be a good cue to open up the conversation to something deeper, maybe make his reassess his life choices.

It's not. His expression becomes harder, his body language closes off, and I find myself on the receiving end of the most chilling glare ever. "Haven't you ever learned to mind your own business?"

"Oh, wait, no, come on..." Even as I'm protesting, I'm on my feet and backing away, and he's advancing towards me like he's willing to lamp me for bringing this up, and I'm not sure who that's going to hurt more.

"No! We're done here! You don't get to comment on me, or my life choices, or my history! You don't know the first thing about me... and I'm happy for it to stay that way!" He pushes past me and opens the door out into the compound. "Would you please leave?"

I can't argue. I can't say a damned thing now without the whole camp hearing it. He's got me backed into a corner with my hands tied behind my back.

It's probably for the best. I think I've done enough damage for one night. I've hopelessly and utterly blown this, in every possible way, on every possible level, and it's time to walk out with what's left of my dignity.

Dejected, rejected, and suitably berated, I slink out into the compound, my tail between my legs. It's cold out, and the breeze goes straight through my silk happi coat. The door bangs closed behind me, and I honestly want to cry.

How did I screw up this badly?

Standing there in the dirt, I wrap my arms around myself, glancing about the compound, wondering what to do with myself. The movie'll be winding down now... but the Officer's Club will still be open. And there's always Rosie's.

But right now, I don't feel like any of them. I just want to take my sorry self back to my tent and drink my body weight in gin.

I begin to trudge home... only to be met with BJ heading in the opposite direction.

I freeze. Shit, shit, shit...

"Fancy seeing you here."

I force a smile and keep walking. "I could say the same thing. I thought you were busy."

"Just doing a coffee run before we get started."

"Oh." I couldn't care less, Beej... couldn't care less.

"You had a nice evening?" He's following me. Apparently that coffee isn't urgent...

"Oh yes, it was great."

"With Nurse Gilbert?"

"Huh?" I grind to a halt mid-trudge and stare at him through tired eyes.

"With Nurse Gilbert, am I right?" BJ has that purposeful look on his face like he's trying to make a point, and I can't decide if the anticipation is worse than the fact that I have a horrible feeling I know exactly what his point is going to be.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because Nurse Gilbert is currently sitting in the supply shed helping me with the stocktake, and waiting for her cup of coffee!"

He's giving me a look that I don't much care for, and I shudder. "Oh, is she?"

" _Yes_. And she's told me that yesterday she spent all evening sat in the Officers Club sharing fashion tips with Klinger."

He's caught me and he knows it. And he looks serious as hell and I can't shake the feeling that I'm not getting out of this with our friendship intact... "Oh no, no you got it wrong, I never said Nurse Gilbert."

"Sure you did!"

"No! No I said Gil _more_!"

"Gilmore?"

"Yes, _Gilmore_! Like Virginia!"

"You're dating Virginia Gilmore?"

" _Yes_! Don't tell Yul Brynner!"

I try to walk away but he grabs me by the elbow.

"Hawkeye, just stop!"

I shake him off, and he grabs at me again. "Beej..."

"What are you _doing_ , huh? This is _crazy_ and you know it!"

And I stop and I look at him, daring him – just _daring_ him! – to say what he's going to say, because we both know the score now and we know what's coming and if this is the way he wants to go, then I really couldn't give a damn anymore. There's nothing I can do to stop him, and even if there is, I don't think I have it in me to find the words or the _whatever_ it would take to do that. And so, I stand there, the chill of the wind whipping through my clothes and through my hair, looking him right in the eye, knowing that he knows...

"What are you gonna do, Beej? You gonna report me? Or are you just gonna sock it to me right here in the compound?"

He hesitates, gives me a curious look, and gestures towards the Swamp. "Can we just talk? Please?"

I roll my eyes. Okay, so he's not about to slug me or go running to the Colonel with the news that the guy he thought was his best buddy is some kind of deviant who's chasing the new company clerk, but I have a feeling he's about to give me a 'concerned' talk about the effects of an army environment on the choices and desires of young men, and I honestly don't know which is worse! If I have to smile and nod and agree that it's all 'stress' or 'circumstances' or whatever I think I might just throw up.

Bracing myself for whatever's coming, I let him lead me over to our shared quarters, dragging my feet. His hand on my back is somewhere between comforting and alarmingly condescending, but I have bigger things to worry about.

Once inside, I flop onto my cot, head in my hands, trying to shut out the world for a few more seconds while I wait for BJ to gather his thoughts.

Silence.

I look up. He's fixing me a Martini. Oh, and him too. It's going to be one of _those_ talks.

I decide to use the gap in the conversation to ask some of my _own_ questions.

"How long have you known?"

"Just today." He opens the jar of olives with a pop. "And don't worry, I'm not about to tell anybody, I just... wanted to stop you from saving anybody else the effort!"

I have to admit I'm a little stunned on all counts. "Are you trying to tell me I'm acting like an obvious fruit?"

He sighs and rummages around the table for the cocktail sticks. "Well, you _were_ pinning your relationship on what appeared to be a different girl selected at random every day. It didn't take a genius to figure out that you were hiding _something_."

"And you just _had_ to go seeking, is that it?" There's more than a hint of bitterness in my voice, and BJ gives me a sympathetic look.

"There were... clues," he admits as he garnishes our drinks. "At first I thought you were leaving me a trail of breadcrumbs, but I don't think you're _that_ stupid."

"I thought I was the height of discretion."

"Discretion?" BJ hands me my drink and sits down on his cot. He begins to rattle my slip-ups off on his fingers. "You left his _shirt_ on the floor of the tent this morning. You took our beer on your date last night, and today it was in _his_ office! You were hanging around him like an excited teenager when I stepped into the hospital today! And then... and _then_ , of all things, you volunteered to do a _stocktake_ with him!"

"I couldn't have just been... volunteering out of the goodness of my heart?" I give him my best innocent shrug.

"That wasn't your heart you were thinking with!" BJ gives me a pointed look. "Subtlety, thy name is _not_ Hawkeye."

I huff and take a slug of my Martini. Suddenly, BJ scuppering my supply shed plans make all the more sense, while at the same time making me _more_ angry. "So... what? You had to throw yourself on your sword and _save_ me from my idiocy?"

" _Something_ like that! I knew what you were doing! And I know what could have happened!"

"Ever the optimist..."

"I'm a _realist_ , that's all! It took _me_ a day to figure it out! How long before somebody else joined up all the little dots? Or just straight-up caught you with your pants down..."

"Beej, I _live_ with you! If _anyone_ was going to find out–"

"You live with _Frank_ , too!"

"He's not that observant..."

"I think given half a chance to string you up in front a court martial, he might just _learn_ to be!"

I hesitate for a moment, not quite willing to admit he might be right. But I give it one last half-hearted argument... "There was nothing to observe! We would have been careful!"

"Hawkeye, you're on an _army base_! I don't know how you play this at home, or if you ever _have_ , and that's not my business, but there are _consequences_ here! Really terrible, dire consequences! For _both_ of you! What were you _thinking_?!"

"I was _thinking_..." I can't believe I'm even having this conversation! "I just wanted to spend an evening somewhere _alone_ , with no Potter cutting through the office and no Frank hanging around! I wanted to be able to have a few hours of not looking over our shoulders every five minutes!"

"And there's your first mistake." He points at me with a cocktail stick, olive still _in situ_. "You _need_ to be looking over your shoulder – _if_ this is still something you're dead set on doing – whether you like it or not! And if _you're_ not going to do that, then so help me, _I'll_ be the one looking over your shoulder _for_ you!"

I stare into my drink, cocktail stick clasped between fingers, quietly rotating in the shimmering, clear liquid. "Why?" I ask him.

"Because I'm your friend." His voice is totally sincere. Earnest. Full of care and concern in a way I'd never expected. "And because I'm from San Francisco and I've seen what happens to the guys who _don't_."

I freeze. I can't quite help the feeling that I've just been smacked in the face with a cold dose of reality. I've heard the horror stories about army guys – boys, some of them – ditched in Eureka Valley with no onward travel, disgraced by the courts, disowned by their families. It's not fair and it's not pretty, but it's what goes on. Funny how a pair of pretty blue eyes and a cute smile can make you forget...

BJ pushes on: "Now, I don't know if this is... a wartime thing for you, or if this is just... another aspect of your... _colourful_ personality, and I think it's probably best if I _don't_ know, because what I don't know they can't drag out of me in front of a court martial, but as long as you're doing what you're doing, I just want to make sure you stay safe. And it'll be a whole lot easier for me to watch your back if you're honest with me!"

Wow. Wow! I just... _Wow_! This would have been so useful to know a few days ago! Not that it does me much good _now_ , but I still can't help but be bowled over by how sweet and understanding he's being. Once again, I stare into my drink. I've been playing with my olive too much, and with one more twist it falls from the stick and sinks slowly to the bottom of my glass. I watch it as it settles. "Well," I reply, swirling the glass and watching the olive dance in a spiral, "that's _very_ kind of you, but I don't think it'll be necessary. Not now."

"Oh." BJ's tone says it all. There's relief, I can sense that, but he's... genuinely sorry for me. This, I did not expect. "You want to talk about it?" he asks. His eyes dart momentarily to the door. " _Quietly_ ," he adds, with considerable emphasis.

I glance over my shoulder, too, and, after a little consideration, and with a subdued tone of voice, I try and paint a blurry watercolour of my night: "There's a fiancée in the picture," I explain.

"Ah." BJ nods. "A real one?"

"As in a person?"

"As in a real relationship," BJ clarifies. "Not a..." He lowers his voice a little and leans in. "I believe the term is ' _beard_ '?"

I can't help but laugh at that. Hearing the happily married BJ Hunnicutt attempting to navigate the linguistic idiosyncrasies of homosexual underground culture is far more amusing than it should be. "See, that's what I was trying to find out! But I..." Sighing, I take another slug of Martini and slump over, elbows resting on knees, head in my hand. "I got it all wrong, Beej! I was an asshole!"

"What did you do?"

"I'll tell you what I did: I was hurt and I was rejected and I channelled all my 'spurned lover' energy into being a self-righteous moron. I got on my soap box, and started ranting about love and marriage and what it ought to mean to a guy who probably understands what he's getting into better than _I_ do!"

"Right, because _you're_ the expert on those things all of a sudden!" He bites his olive off the stick.

"That's the crazy thing! I know I'm not! All I saw was that I was getting thrown over for the dental nurse he met while he was getting his cavities filled and decided it was the best way to make out like _I_ was the better deal! And all I did was make myself sound like a jerk!"

"Well, at least your portrayal was accurate!" BJ grins. I scowl. "Okay, then what happened? He threw you out?"

"Not before putting me in my place he didn't!"

"Ouch! What did he say?"

"Basically that I wouldn't understand because I'm a womanising cad who's slept with half of Korea whereas he's little and quiet and shy and he needs a girl in his life to stop his friends in the army from calling him a nancy."

"Who's Nancy?"

The bang of the door to the Swamp makes me jump out of my skin, and a nervous sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.

"Hawkeye's new girlfriend!" BJ jumps in immediately as Frank barges in and sets about making himself less repulsive for Margaret. "Lieutenant Nancy Gilmore – from the 121st Evac hospital in Tokyo." BJ winks at me. I guess this is that 'looking over my shoulder' thing he mentioned...

"Huh!" Frank scoffs as he lathers up for a shave. " _Another_ one!"

"You know me!" I announce, and bury my face in my Martini.

Frank scoffs again as he begins to scrape the foam off his face with his army-issue razor. "I don't know! Women, women, women, booze, and more women!"

"Yeah, that's right..."

"So _clearly_ you've worked your way through this entire camp and now you've had to move onto another unit in a whole other country!"

I scowl at him as he makes faces in the mirror, trying to make the razor reach his nostrils. "Well, it was either that or start on the men, and I can't say you have that much going for you."

Frank turns the colour of his shaving foam and stares at me. "That's sick!"

I can't help but chuckle, and even BJ flashes a grin at me. Even when I'm miserable, I'm brazen.

"Oh, lay off him, Frank!" BJ warns. "He's had a rough day!"

"Oh, _really_?" Frank sounds genuinely concerned... and yet at the same time, strangely delighted. He moves over to loiter beside us, half shaven, half covered in lather. "Do you wanna... talk about it?"

Oh no. He's going to do that thing where he tries to be _friends_. "No, I really don't!"

"Oh, come on!" Uninvited, he pulls up a chair and sits next to me. "Sometimes it can be really good for morale if the men can all sit down together and hear from somebody who's worse off than they are!"

I squint across the tent at BJ. "I'm not sure that's quite right."

"I read it in a manual on improving camaraderie between the troops! It's got an official crest on it and everything, so it _must_ be true! Besides, I know it always makes _me_ feel better to know somebody's having a lousier time than I am!"

"Glad to be of service, Frank!" I roll my eyes a little and finish my drink.

"Well, you're welcome, Hawkeye!" He pats me gingerly on the back and for a terrible moment I think he's going to hug me. "So what's happened?"

I can't even be bothered to argue. If I'm going to maintain this charade, I might as well practice on the guy who's most likely to drop me in it if I get busted. I take a deep breath and look him in the eye. "Lieutenant Nancy Gilmore" – so far so good – "of the 121st Evac hospital" – I glance at BJ and he nods – "is engaged to a Navy dent... _ist_ " – BJ gives me a thumbs up – "and has declined my offer of" – BJ raises his eyebrows – "a three-day break together in Seoul." Another thumbs up. Okay, I got this!

"Aww, what a shame!" Frank whines, staring wistfully into the middle distance. I think I prefer his hatred to his sympathy...

"So," I conclude with a wave of my hand, hoping we can move on from this conversation now, "I guess it's all off."

"Yeah..." Frank sighs.

"Yeah." BJ agrees.

"Of course, it doesn't _have_ to be!" Frank adds with an odd flippancy quite at odds with his usual stance on my romantic endeavours.

"Uh, I think it kind of _does_ , Frank..." I reply, giving him a curious look.

"Yeah, "BJ agrees, "the lady said 'no', Frank, I think that generally means it's over."

"Oh no, hear me out!" Oh shit, this is gonna be good... "I think there's something... _noble_ , and... and _self-sacrificing_ in being the uh... _third_ in a marriage! Some people might say it's cheap, but I think it takes a real, _strong_ kind of a woman – or man, in your case – to stand by a married man – or, equally, a married, or... engaged woman – and provide that _special_ kind of companionship that's _really_ , when you think about it, equal to or even _superior_ to the kind between husband and wife." He glowers for a moment. "Especially when the wife in question won't even tell you how much is in her trust fund and doesn't let you drive the Buick!"

I shoot BJ a look, and he tries very hard not to laugh. We both know Frank isn't talking about me, now...

"But to have somebody else there, to have somebody who'll... listen and support and comfort..."

"Yeah, among other things..."

"Those things, too! There's a _closeness_ there, an unspoken understanding of souls, a _spark_..."

"A spark, is that right?" I look at BJ and raise my eyebrows.

"He's talking about the glint of the light bouncing off her oak leaves whenever she draws back to slap him."

"... and even though it's difficult and thankless and... y'know, kind of unofficial... that doesn't make it any less precious!"

I blink at him as he brings his speech to a close. "That was very touching, Frank."

Frank shrugs. "It was nothing. I was just... sharing. I sometimes have quite profound thoughts... sometimes."

"Beautiful," BJ agrees, trying to keep the grin from taking over his face.

"You think?"

"Absolutely." I give Frank a nudge. "Now go tell Margaret before you forget the words."

" _Margaret_!" He leaps to his feet. "What makes you think this has anything to do with Major Houlihan? I was just trying to help!"

"Oh, come off it, Frank! I bet you've been rehearsing that speech for half your shift!"

" _Well_! That's the last time I try to give you advice on your _seedy_ little love life!"

Furious, he wipes the rest of the shaving foam off his face and, with half a chin full of stubble, storms off letting the door bang closed behind him. BJ and I can barely contain from laughing as he storms across the compound.

"I get the feeling was just a substitute Hot Lips!" I deduce with a shudder.

"I'd go take a shower if I were you."

"I feel so used!"

"Going by what Frank said, I think Margaret's beginning to feel the same way!"

"And you really think _he's_ a legitimate threat to me?"

"Not so long as we both stick to the story." BJ finishes his drink and stands up, placing the glass on the side.

"Right. Nancy Gilmore at the 121st. As if I could forget!"

"Engaged to an army dentist.

" _Navy_. USS Essex."

"Ah yes, easier to remember if you stay close to the truth."

"Also it means whoever it is, he's not gonna be one of ours."

"Ah yes, we wouldn't want our imaginary girl winding up engaged to a real life army dentist..."

"Absolutely not. I never share my imaginary girlfriends – typical only child. Do you want another Martini?" I wave a glass at him.

"No, I'd better not. The _second_ of your trio of pretend girlfriends is going to be wondering where I've got to."

"Oh yes, your stocktake, how could I forget?"

"Sure I can't persuade you to join us?"

Filling my glass, I shoot him a smirk. "Don't get fresh with me, Beej! I'm nursing a broken heart, remember?"

He laughs, much to my relief, and I even detect a certain... knowingness in his good humour, like he's just been let in on the joke for the first time. He seems almost... smug. Perhaps he should be? It's quite an honour to be trusted with this kind of information about a person.

"You'll be okay, right?" he asks, hesitating by the door for a moment. "I mean, you know where to find me if you need someone."

I wave him off as I return to my cot, Martini in hand. "I'll be _fine_ , Beej! It's been _four days_! Hardly a love affair to write home about!"

The look on his face suggests he doesn't believe me.

"I'm fine!" I say again. "Go! Take stock! Stay up late! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

BJ laughs and goes to head off. "I don't know, Hawk," he says as he leaves. "That list just keeps getting shorter!"

I toss a pillow at him as he vanishes, and the laughter fades into the distance.


	5. Day 5

**Day 5**

I am not fine. I am so far from fine, I can't even see what fine looks like anymore. Fine and I have parted company for the foreseeable future and seem to be on a permanent separation.

I don't remember when I stopped drinking, which is all I need to know to tell me that it wasn't soon enough. My mouth feels like something died in it and my head seems to be drumming out the funeral march as a fitting tribute. I am hazily aware of reveille sounding out on the compound, but despite Frank shaking me, I make no attempt to get up. Why would I? I'm not going out there after last night.

The next thing I know, BJ is calling my name and shoving me, holding a hot cup of coffee under my nose.

"Hawkeye? Hawkeye?"

I make an indistinct sound and try (and fail) to sit up.

"You were due on shift twenty minutes ago."

Another sound, more distressed than the first, and I make a valiant attempt at getting out of bed. I make it halfway, but the tent is spinning and BJ has to help me the rest of the way. He forces a cup of coffee into my hand. "Here you go. Now you're on your own. I need sleep."

With these words, he staggers over to his cot and does a full-body flop onto the mattress. I think he's asleep before he hits the blankets.

Lucky devil! What I wouldn't give to be able to do that right now!

I manage to find my boots, my socks, and a clean t-shirt in the pit that is my corner of the Swamp. I can't find a button-down, so this will have to do. Teeth scrubbed and tongue de-furred, I quickly race over to the hospital, shivering a little as the cold air nips at my naked arms. Maybe the cold air will help me wake up a little. Maybe I won't look so hung over by the time I get to post-op. Maybe...

"Colonel?"

The Colonel looks at me down his nose, which is impressive when he's five-seven and I'm six-two. I can already tell I'm in the doghouse...

He sighs wearily as he eyes me up and down. "You know," he says, "there are some days when I have to say I'm proud that I'm able to run a unit where the men can relax and enjoy themselves. I may not do things by the book, but I like to think I get results, and on those days when everything's running smoothly despite being a little unorthodox, I can sleep soundly knowing that I did the right thing." His expression hardens. "This is not one of those days."

"Colonel, I..."

"Oh no!" He holds a finger up to me. "Oh no, son. Now you get yourself back out of those doors and under a shower. And then I'd like you to have a shave, and come back in here in half an hour with a clean uniform, and your white coat on, ready to hand over, and with a damned good explanation for why you've turned up, twenty five minutes late, stinking of liquor and looking like you've just staggered out of a saloon!"

"But Colonel, I..."

"Dismissed, Pierce."

I know not to argue when he starts talking army. And so, for the second time in a twelve hour period, I find myself slinking off out of the hospital building feeling suitably chastised.

I do as I'm told, and return in a timely fashion as requested: showered, shaven, and fully dressed. The only thing I'm lacking is my explanation. And it's going to be a long time coming.

As I walk through the doors, now just shy of an hour late for my shift, the Colonel beckons to me like a stern parent calling a child over for a lecture, and I know I'm gonna get it now. "My office, Pierce," he instructs me. "Now."

I follow him through, head down, trying very hard to not look up as we pass Steve's desk. The Colonel stops in front of me, and suddenly I'm forced to grind to a halt and take a sudden interest in the woodwork of the furniture.

"Rogers?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"I'd like Captain Pierce's personnel file, and the disciplinary log."

And I'd like the ground to swallow me up...

We continue through, and I sink into a chair opposite the Colonel's desk. Steve brings in the paperwork, and once again I busy myself studying something very interesting in the middle distance and trying to make myself disappear into the floor. There's a horrible, awkward silence as Potter begins to write me up, but I'm infinitely grateful that he waits until my erstwhile _paramour_ is out of the door again before he starts ripping me a new one.

"So, what have you got to say for yourself?"

I give a rather pathetic shrug. "Not a great deal."

"Oh. Well, that makes quite a change."

"I know. I'm sorry."

The Colonel sighs, and puts the cap back on his pen. "You knew you were on duty at seven am this morning. And yet you thought it would be a good idea to sit up until God-knows-when, knocking back that moonshine of yours? Is that right?"

"That just about covers it."

"You know, I've half a mind to take that still of yours away. If you can't moderate yourselves then perhaps it's time to remove the temptation!"

He's being kind, I know it, offering me a say in the course of action. Giving me the responsibility to volunteer the still if I feel it's for the best. "I don't think that'll be necessary," I reply with total honesty. "I just had a rough night last night. It won't be a habit."

"Alright. But don't let this happen again! Henry Blake might have turned a blind eye to surgeons turning up for post-op duty with a thick head and a belly full of rot-gut, but it's not happening on my watch."

"I understand, Sir."

I must be contrite. I pulled the 'Sir' card!

"I know it's not exactly brain-work, dispensing pills and checking stitches, but those boys are in our care from the moment they land on the chopper pad to the second they evac to Tokyo or ship back to their units, and I don't want _any_ post-operative complications being missed because a doctor on duty wasn't on the ball!"

"Of course not, Sir."

"Now... you tell me straight son, and I don't want you trying to cover up, or feeling pressured because I've been on duty since ten pm... Are you fit for duty or are you not?"

I hesitate. The thought of trying push through a morning shift fills me with dread, but I can't deny that I feel better after that shower, and I am, regrettably, sober. "I'll be fine, Sir," I promise with a nod.

"Very well." He writes something on the form, slips it into my file, and closes it, before slipping it across the desk. "KP duty every morning after breakfast for the next week. Hand this to your friend Rogers on your way out."

Oh. Delightful. KP duty _and_ a forced interaction with my romantically unintended. My morning gets better and better.

"Dismissed, Pierce."

I clamber to my feet and pick up my increasingly heavy file. I'm beginning to worry about what might happen if any future employers ask to look at the details of my military service. A dishonourable discharge might be preferable to this... patchwork mess of minor disciplinaries and bad-conduct reports.

Exiting the Colonel's office, I dump my file on Steve's desk without a word and head straight for post-op.

"What did you do?"

I hesitate, one hand on the door. "Why don't you read the file and find out?"

This is met with silence, and, at last, I pluck up the courage and turn around to look at him.

"I stayed up too late, I drank too much, and I came in half an hour late for my shift with a hangover."

His expression is unreadable, but he sighs and shakes his head. "You're such an idiot!"

I can't tell if that's pity or an insult, but right now I feel pretty deserving of both. "Well then," I reply flatly, "I guess that's something we agree on."

Without further word, I head on through the post-op to get on with my work, leaving him alone, clutching my file.

* * *

My shift feels like a special kind of purgatory. The time drags, but in a totally different way to the way it dragged yesterday. It's one thing to be bored and looking forward to something, but it's quite another to be equally bored when all you want to do is curl up under a blanket and pretend you don't exist.

When I've done all my relevant checks and drug doses, I try and kill time by chatting away to the patients, but my heart just isn't in it.

Even Nurse Baker notices the change in my temperament.

"Everything okay?" she asks as she fetches another bottle of penicillin for me. "You're acting like somebody's kicked your puppy."

"Am I that obvious?"

"And then some. It's nearly lunchtime and you still haven't offered to whisk me off to the supply room and check my pulse."

I manage a half-hearted laugh. "I'm sorry, honey, I'll do better tomorrow."

"Be sure that you do. The only thing that keeps me going on these early shifts is looking forward to the moment when I get to slap that cheeky little face of yours."

"Happy to be of service..."

We fill the rest of the shift with small-talk. She doesn't ask the reason for my bad mood, and I don't offer to take her pulse and she doesn't get to slap me. It's been a dull day for both of us, all things considered.

By the time Frank arrives to take over, I'm considerably less hung over but no less miserable. And Frank does nothing to help my mood.

"I heard _somebody_ turned up to work drunk and got put on report!"

"Whatever happened to improving camaraderie and listening to people worse off than you?"

"Oh, phooey – who needs _that_?"

Ahh... looks like Hot Lips put out last night after all.

We proceed with the handover without any further discussion of my lovelife or his, mercifully, and once I've given him the rundown of all our patients' ailments, I am finally permitted to slope away to tend to my own.

BJ is still sleeping peacefully in the Swamp when I creep in, and it's all too easy in the quiet stillness of the tent to crawl into my own bed for forty winks. Sleep comes effortlessly, unlike last night, and my rest is dreamless and undisturbed. And so very, very much needed right now!

* * *

I awaken to the dull, grey half-light of the evening, and that horrible feeling you get when you've napped for too long and the day is gone, and you're still not entirely sure if you're feeling any better than when you drifted off three hours ago. Aside from the setting sun, the only other change is BJ, who is conspicuous by his absence. He appears over my left shoulder as I attempt to freshen up.

"Ah-ha, the creature stirs!"

"You can talk! You slept all day. They're serving dinner in the mess tent!"

"Oh, good! Breakfast!"

Once he's changed out of his blue robe and into his khaki fatigues, we both venture into the mess tent for dinner – well, my dinner and his breakfast. I remember being told during my internship that you should always prepare for a night shift by eating breakfast just as you would in the morning, but there's no option of that here, and BJ tucks into a hearty breakfast of beef stew, onion gravy, and instant mash while I prod my dinner around on my tin tray.

"You're supposed to eat your food, not play with it."

"How very parental. Practicing for Erin, are we? Perhaps you'd like me to open up and say 'ah'?"

"Yup. Now eat it all up or you don't get dessert."

"Have you _seen_ dessert? The custard's _blue_. I think I'll pass."

I drop my fork and sit there surveying the crowds for a while. I try to be subtle as I struggle to locate Steve in the masses of khaki bodies shuffling up and down the queue and huddling over tables.

BJ nudges me. "On your left."

Oh. Apparently I failed.

I glance over to the far corner, where Steve is sitting, alone, on one of the benches. The other guys are ignoring him, even actively avoiding him. I see someone glance in his direction and laugh.

My hackles rise and I feel myself twitching. This is the part of his life I've never known. This is what he was talking about last night. I never saw this before – our paths have yet to cross during meal times – and I guess I hadn't given it any thought until he tried to explain to me.

I don't know. Maybe it's worse here because he doesn't know anybody. Or maybe it's worse when he _does_? I can't tell. I feel like I've just seen a snippet of his life in the army, and with it, gained a little insight into the choices he's made. It's not easy being the one swimming against the current. I might make it look easy, but I'm a big fish in a little pond. He's a small fry in the largest military force in the modern world! It must grind a guy down something rotten, and it turns my stomach to think of him sitting through it, day after day.

But it doesn't show. If any of the loneliness, teasing, or cruel laughter gets to him – and I expect it does, because how could it not? – he doesn't give anything away. As I watch, he rises from his table, scrapes his tray, and sails past not a foot away from my elbow on his way to the door, head high, looking like nothing in the world could drag him down.

And so help me, I think he's wonderful!

* * *

I spend the rest of the evening tethered to BJ. If this were anything out of the ordinary, I'd worry that people might think it was _him_ I was queer for, but I'm not without _some_ standards.

Although, in a certain light...

Not right now, though. Because right now he's squinting into a small hand mirror trying to shave his sideburns and making the most ridiculous faces, like he thinks if he twists his jaw far enough to the left he'll be able to see out of his right ear.

"You're bored. Why don't you go do something?"

"No, I'm not."

I've been lying on my cot for the past twenty minutes throwing a balled up pair of socks in the air and trying to catch it with my feet. I'm very bored.

"You've been following me around all day! It's getting on my last nerve! Go, get out, take a walk or something!"

I scoff at his suggestion, scrambling to my feet and pacing the Swamp. "And risk stumbling into the Officer's Club to drown my sorrows in another night of heavy drinking? Falling into the bottomless pit of my own self-pity? Succumbing to the soft but relentless mutterings of my conscience, chipping away at my confidence with two-minute reminders of everything I said, did, and thought last night that resulted in the disaster that currently constitutes my love-life? No thanks! And unless you want to come home to find me crying into the still, you won't make stupid suggestions like that again!"

"Maybe you should?"

"Should what?"

"Cry. I mean... you tried the drinking thing last night. And it's what _most_ people do when a relationship doesn't work out."

I shudder a little. "Don't use the 'R' word, Beej..."

"Oh, I'm sorry! Might have inadvertently suggested you had _feelings_ there for a second! But no, that's something that only happens to _normal_ people, and _you_ – the great, immune, immovable Hawkeye Pierce – could _never_ succumb to something so... frivolous!"

"I refuse to cry over a _second date_ that bummed out!"

"Well, if that's all it was..."

"That's _all it was_!"

"Great!" BJ wipes his face and stands up, dropping his shaving kit onto his cot.

"Great!"

"So you won't have any trouble getting over it on your own." He takes a step towards the door.

I move to follow him. "Where are you going?"

"Work!" He gestures towards the hospital.

"Great! I'll come help out!"

"Oh, no you won't!" He puts his hands on my arms and manoeuvres me out of the way. "Unless of course you want to... swing by and have a conversation with somebody."

I make a big show of the laugh that inspires, just so he knows how damned _funny_ he's being. "Oh! Oh, _very good_! Yeah, I like that... you crack me up!" I flop onto my cot with a scowl.

"I'm serious!"

"BJ, please! Do not be fooled by the picture I paint of myself as a silver-tongued lothario of unstoppable sexual prowess! There are some romantic pits even _I_ cannot dig myself out of, and I'm not about to embarrass myself by trying!"

Sulking, I pick up one of my dirty magazines and make a show of flicking through it, which is usually BJ's cue to leave. But he doesn't. He stands and hovers. I hate it when he does that.

"What?! What do you want?" I throw my sock ball at him.

"You know," BJ explains quietly as he picks up the socks from where they fell, "this might not be something that's ever occurred to you lothario types, but hear me out: sometimes having a conversation after a bad date has nothing to do with digging yourself out of a hole or... furthering your sexual prowess. Sometimes it's just about _apologising_. And maybe you might not get a third date, or... whatever it is you were hoping to get when this whole thing started, but at the very least you can try and make amends for saying something rotten to somebody you claim to care about, and then maybe from there you can stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop moping about the place, following _me_ around like a lost sheep and making puppy dog eyes across the mess tent! So how does _that_ sound?"

"Well if you're gonna get all _noble_ on me!" I snatch my socks back and return to where I was before – flat on my cot, throwing ball in the air.

"So you'll think about it."

"I never said that."

"Okay... you know where I am if you need me."

"Right... right..."

The bang of the door and a gust of cold air signals his departure, and I continue to lie there, tossing my socks, thinking on his words.

It wouldn't be so terrible, would it?

I mean, it might even _help_ , mightn't it?

What's the worst that could happen?

My socks bounce off the tent ceiling and hit me smack in the face.

Screw it. Anything has to be better than this!

* * *

I loiter outside post-op until Frank finishes handover and finally rushes off to the Swamp for some extra-curricular extra-maritals, and as he departs, I sneak in through the side door. BJ is hunched over the desk in the corner (which is way too small for him) trying to read Frank's scrawl. I sidle up beside him and lean against the desk.

"Wrong desk, Hawk."

"I'm taking baby steps. I made it this far."

"Take your baby steps a little further then. Office is that-a-way. Daddy's too busy to hold your hand right now."

"I thought you were giving me a pep talk."

"That was it. I'm all pepped out. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll be right here, shaking my pompoms for ya."

"What? That's it? No advice? No script? No 'this is how you do sincere'?"

"I can't give you a script for sincerity! The whole point is you say what you're feeling. That's what makes it sincere!"

I scowl at him. " _Oh_ no! Saying what I was feeling is what got me into this mess in the first place!"

I go to leave, but BJ grabs me and diverts me round into a corner so he can make Serious Faces at me and do that annoying thing he does where he tries to look out for my emotional wellbeing. It's a new feature as for as room-mates go, and something I'm going to have to acclimatise to after twelve months of Trapper John 'let's drown our sorrows in three pints of gin and then pass out' McIntyre.

"Look, this is stupid!" I start my protestations early. I tend to do that with BJ – it's easier for him to smack them down that way. "Why am I even here? What's this going to change?"

"Probably nothing."

"Exactly!"

"Except you'll feel like less of a jerk and you might be able to sleep at night without getting bombed out of your mind on gin."

"I'm a creature of habit. Don't try to change me."

"Hawkeye..."

I try to walk away again and BJ pulls me back, dragging me into a corner where we can converse in hushed voices behind a curtain. In very careful language. With zero or altered pronouns.

"Look, worst case scenario, conversation goes nowhere, apology not accepted. Realistic expectation... you can part company tomorrow on slightly better terms than you are right now."

I hesitate, mulling it over... and then quirk him a smile. "What's the best case?"

BJ smacks me round the head with his rounds list. "Get in there!"

"That's what I was hoping!" I toss over my shoulder as I saunter in the direction of the office.

My saunter slows to a trudge as I near the doors. Bluster and bravado aside, I'm really not hoping for much here. Our interactions today seem to have mostly revolved around ignoring each other, so I'm not expecting anything other than me embarrassing myself further and cementing his opinion of me as a big-headed moron who can't hold his drink and shoots his mouth off when he gets turned down. I know I screwed up, and in my experience grovelling after the fact never quite redeems a person, and so I usually prefer to bow out rather than try and claw my way back into somebody's good books. But here goes, I guess.

The blinds are down on the door, so I knock before entering. Silence. I knock again, and when there's still no answer, I open the door and peek through.

The office is empty. Steve's desk is immaculate, his papers all filed and his typewriter gleaming. His bed is empty, the blankets pulled over crisply and neatly, hospital corners and everything. Radar's never looks like that.

He might be in the latrine or the showers, I guess, so I perch on his desk and try to wait... Okay, this is unbearable! After ten seconds, and pondering other possibilities, I open the door to Potter's office and peer inside. "Steve?" Nothing.

Pre-op? My heart's pounding, my hand shaking as I push the door open, and I feel like my legs are going to give way underneath me. "Steve? Can we–?"

I get no further. There's a yelp and a crash, and I turn away just in time to catch a glimpse of what can only be described as a blur of naked flesh.

I _think_ he was at least wearing boxer shorts, but he grabs a bathrobe from the wheelchair to cover up nonetheless. Well, we're now two for two on the nudity front, not that I was trying to equalise right this second...

"Sorry!" I mumble at the wall I'm now staring at as I rub my temple and curse myself for walking in on him. "Sorry. That was... uh... I didn't...I mean... uh... Sorry."

"It's okay," he mutters with a tone that suggests it's really not okay. "This office setup is ridiculous. That other doctor walked in on me on his way out! I came in here for a little privacy! I think I'd rather change in front of a dozen strangers than have people keep passing through like this." He fastens his robe securely and sits down on the pre-op table. "Was there something you wanted?"

I let the door close gently behind me. "Uh... well, I just... uh..." What's happening here? I had all this clear in my head before! Whatever happened to the silver-tongued lothario who used to be me? "I was just... thinking about things – about what happened last night – and I was wondering: do you wanna... talk? Or... something?"

Okay that was terrible. I hereby volunteer myself to be taken before the firing squad and put out of my misery.

He's looking at me like I'm the most pathetic piece of shit that's every got dragged into his office. "Not especially, no," he replies with admirable and devastating honesty.

"Oh. Right. Well, then, I'll just..." I turn around and go to head out the way I've just come.

"Oh, for the love of God!"

His exclamation startles me, partly because it's so unexpected and partly because I think this is the closest he's ever got to swearing. "What?"

"Look, if you've got something to say to me then just say it! Don't come in here, walking in on me, barging in on _my_ free time, and then start trying to get _me_ to say I wanna talk so you can feel better about it!"

"Right. Right." I nod and stutter.

"So was there?"

I blink at him. "Was there what?"

"Something you wanted to say?"

Yes. Yes, there is. But I'm having trouble with my words now and I feel like a moron, so I just stand there like a goldfish for a couple of seconds. I want to tell him he's beautiful when he's angry, but I'm keeping the lothario firmly in his box and shooting for sincerity here...

"Sit down," he tells me, gesturing to the wheelchair.

I sit. He perches. He's taller than me this way: me in the wheelchair like the wounded, emotional cripple that I am and him on the table like I'm about to enact a complex heart procedure on him and try very hard not to fuck it up and wound him any further than I already have.

"So, what was it you wanted to say?"

I laugh, wringing my hands nervously in my lap. "At the risk of sounding something like a broken record, I came to apologise."

He nods, but doesn't join me in my laughter.

"I feel like I've been doing a _lot_ of apologising since you got here..."

"Well, you've had a lot to apologise _for_."

"You're not wrong." I look up at him, probably looking somewhat pathetic but I feel too lousy to care. "I don't know what it is that's up with me. I'm not _trying_ to be a jerk, but it seems like every time I'm around you all I manage to do is open my mouth and insert my foot."

"Then it's probably a good job I'm transferring back to my unit tomorrow. You'll be relieved to know, your mouth should be foot-free from now on."

"Yeah, I know..." Good thing or not, the last thing I'm feeling right now is relieved. I don't want him to go back to his unit thinking of me as the guy who insulted his marriage and made him feel like crap! "Look," I begin, staring at the floor, "what I said last night was...?" Rude? Unforgiveable? Insulting? Condescending? Presumptuous? Shitty? I abandon the adjectives for a moment and change tack: "I shouldn't have said what I said. I thought we had something going here and when I found out we didn't I took it out on you and... and..." I wave a hand as I flounder helplessly for his fiancée's name.

"Lorraine."

"Lorraine. Yes. Heh, would you look at that! Our last CO had a wife called Lorraine!"

"Did he?" Steve's tone indicates pretty clearly that he couldn't give a rat's ass what Henry Blake's wife was called.

"I spoke out of turn. I was jealous and hurt and I let my mouth run away with me. I was making assumptions about what I thought was best for you."

"Oh, you were, were you?" He crosses his arms and sits back, a slightly cocky – even sadistic – look on his face. "And tell me, what did the renowned heartbreaker and surgeon Hawkeye Pierce _assume_ was best for me?"

Oh, boy. He's loving this. He's milking this for all it's worth and I can't escape the feeling I'm going to get verbally flayed alive before this conversation is through. "Well... I... uh... so far as last night goes..."

" _You_?" He smirks at me.

"Uh... yeah."

"Really? So you look at me and thought 'oh look at that poor little guy, not fitting in, having trouble with his health, trapped in a loveless sham of a relationship' and _you_ figured what would make _my_ life significantly better... is a forty minute bunk-up with you on a stained old mattress in the supply shed!"

"Hey, I _never said_ anything about..."

"You think I'm an idiot! You think I'm making the biggest mistake of my life, and you think you're _such a catch_ that a quick one night stand is all it'll take to change my entire outlook!"

"Well, I do think you're being a little..." I stop myself, but it's too late.

He blinks at me, leans in, and raises a hand to his ear. "I'm sorry? A little _what_? Naïve? Is that the word you're looking for?"

Damn. "I was... something in that ballpark, yeah..."

"Naïve." He nods, like I've just proven a point for him. "Yeah, I figured. Poor, naïve little Sergeant Rogers, doesn't know much about dating, doesn't have much luck with women, got engaged to the first one who sniffed in his direction, probably _could_ do better with the guys if only he had the _balls_ , and half his unit think he's a fruit anyway so why would it matter, right? I'm just some dumb, inexperienced kid who needs a charmer like you to make the earth move for me and teach me a few things about the facts of life..."

"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say 'kid'!"

" _Good_!"

"So please don't think..."

"I'm _older_ than you!"

Okay, _that_ surprises me! "You are?"

"Yes! By over a year, in fact."

"How did you...?"

"I looked in your file."

My jaw drops. "You _read_ my _file_?"

He shrugs and smiles at me. "You said I could."

"I _did_ but..." I pause. I have no counterpoint for this.

He laughs, and I feel he's managed to completely get one over on me and lighten the tone all at once. That's normally my trick!

"You're right. I did." I sink back into my chair with a resigned sigh. "And you're right about everything else, too: I thought you were naïve and I thought I knew better and I thought _you_ could _do_ better, and yes, I thought _I_ was the better you should probably be doing. And maybe I was wrong to think those things – I was _definitely_ wrong to say them – and it's not up to you to justify your choices to me, because the best person to decide what's right for you is _you_ , and I'm sorry."

The words come out so naturally it takes me a moment to realise that I've actually done it. I've said what I came here to say. And it wasn't flowery or poetic and he hasn't thrown it back in face or fallen into my arms. It's just... done. Quietly and uneventfully. Feels right. Feels... good. I guess this is that sincerity thing BJ talked about.

"Uh-huh." He nods, shifting a little. Arms still folded. Whether I've redeemed myself or not remains an unknown, for now.

We sit in silence for a few seconds. Seems like forever. I know it's not.

"I'm not naïve," he says at last. "I know you might think it, and I know I don't exactly come across as... worldly, but I'm not naïve."

"I'm starting to see that."

"And I might be... inexperienced... in some things, but that doesn't make me an idiot. I'm capable of making decisions about my own personal life, whether you agree with them or not."

I nod. "Granted."

"And I don't have to have _done_ those things to understand what it all means and now it all works." He pauses, licking his lips, as if he's slightly embarrassed by the conversation. "I should have told you," he admits, his voice softer now, apologetic. "About Lorraine. But I enjoyed it. The flirting, I mean. I enjoyed what it meant, and what it could have been, and I liked how it made me feel... how _you_ made me feel."

I can't help but smile at that. "Yeah... it kinda showed."

"I should have stopped it sooner! I just thought... six days! What could happen in six days?"

I chuckle at that. "You sure about that 'naïve' thing?"

"Shut up!" He's laughing as he says it so I know I'm not in trouble. "What I'm _saying_ is... I didn't expect things to get so... _intense_. I thought we would... flirt for a while and then I'd go back to my unit and you'd move on and that'd be it. And then... and then you were asking me back to your tent, talking about kissing me, and..." He flushes, and looks away, pushing his hair out of his face with a trembling hand. "And so I thought... I had to bring her up like she was a _safety net_ or something, or I was gonna..."

He stops before the word 'fall', but its meaning is more than implied. And I can't deny I'm touched by that.

He stops, and sighs, staring at the floor as he gathers his thoughts.

"I don't love her," he confesses, looking up like he feels guilty for even _admitting_ it. "But I could learn to. And even if I don't, it would be... nice. Comfortable. _Safe_ in a way that" – he gestures towards me – " _this_ never could be."

"And that's what you want?" I ask him. Quiet. Not judging. Just asking. "Safe?"

"I know it doesn't sound like much!" He's laughing, but there's a sadness in him. "Just a little companionship, feeling like I belong with somebody? Because God knows I don't feel like I belong here!"

"Yeah, I know..."

"No, you _don't_! You don't know because you've known me for five days! In another unit! Believe me, you can _not_ figure out my entire life just by... watching me across the mess hall one afternoon – and yes, I saw that, by the way, so _very subtle_ with that one Hawkeye!"

I sink a little deeper in my chair and give him a guilty smile. "So... tell me?"

"You've got... what, forty staff in this unit altogether? Tops?"

I shrug. I've never counted. "About that?"

"In Tokyo, we've got about four hundred on base at any one time, and every one of them – each and every _one_ of them! – takes one look at me and knows I shouldn't be there. And they look at me, and they look at what I do – shuffling paperwork, sharpening pencils, answering phones – and they know it'll be a cold day in hell before I get within three miles of the front. And they're all there because they're shipping in to head where the fighting is! Some of them have already been once and they're getting sent back out! And there's me: sickly, weak, small, effeminate... all the things a guy in the army's _not_ supposed to be. Safe behind my little desk, filing my papers. They _hate_ me, Hawkeye. And the stupid thing is, I'd go to the front in a _second_ if they'd let me!"

I shudder a little. "Yeah, well... killing's over-rated. Bad for the soul. And it's not too great for the other guy, either."

He looks up at me. "Who said anything about killing?"

"Well, there's a lot of it goes on up there... at the front. Sort of their _raison d'être_ , so to speak. Unless..." My shudder becomes a full body shake, and a chill goes through me. "You're not talking about going up there to fight, you're talking about going up there to _die_."

He gives me the most chilling look. "People die in wars all the time, Hawkeye. Why should I be any different?"

"But is that what you _want_?"

" _No_! Of course it's not what I _want_! It's not what anybody here wants! Not the guys in your operating room! Not the guys in my unit back in Tokyo! Not the North Koreans or the Chinese or _any_ of them, but it _happens_! And I figure if it happens to me then at least somebody else gets to live!"

"Oh, somebody else? _Somebody else_? And that somebody else is somehow worth _more_ than you? Is that it? You think because you got a 4F, your life is _meaningless_? You think you're worth so little that all you've got to offer humanity is to turn yourself into a human shield for the sake of the guy who happens to be standing behind you in the firing line? Is that all?"

He looks at me with a kind of... quiet resignation. He's not angry with me this time. He sighs a weary sigh that seems to come from the very centre of his soul, and he says: "All I ever wanted was to make a difference. For ten years... all I ever wanted..."

And there he stops. He runs out of words. He sits there, head bowed, his eyes screwed closed like he's trying to stop tears he's too proud to shed. Wordlessly, I rise from my chair and move in beside him, putting one arm around his slender shoulders. He leans a little closer, resting against me. Not exactly intimate, but... comfortable. Comforting. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his body expanding with it, pushing against mine, and then releases it. "There are a lot of ways to make a difference in this world," I tell him softly. "Throwing yourself in front of a bullet might seem like a pretty noble one in your line of work, but... I bet if you look around you might find a few others."

He lifts his head, looking at me, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "You asked me last night," he begins in a gentle tone, "if I'd ever been in love?"

"I did. And you don't have to answer that."

"Well, the answer's yes."

"But you can if you want."

He laughs, which is a welcome relief after the heavier tones of a few moments ago. "We grew up together, back in Brooklyn. He was the only kid who ever stood up for me, and God knows I needed it, even then. Sometimes it feels like I've had a target painted on my back my whole life, but–" he hesitates, looking at his hands, running one over the other as if nursing the memory of a bruised knuckle "–we always went down fighting."

"Sounds like a great guy."

"He was."

Past tense. I hear too much of that around here.

"We were never... I mean we didn't..." He shakes his head like he's embarrassed to even put it into words. "Some things happened, but it was a _secret_ , y'know? That's just... not something you put out in the open! It's not something you can... talk about! And there were always girls... everywhere I went with him, there were _always_ girls. I never knew if he... I mean, I never asked."

"Afraid you wouldn't like the answer?" I give his shoulder a squeeze.

"No." He shakes his head. "Answers I can deal with, an answer would have been good. But... talking about it would have made it _real_ , something that I _did_ , rather than something that _happened_. And nice boys don't _do_ things like that!"

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," I reply with a smile. "I happen to have known several nice boys, myself included, who've done plenty of things like that, and a few more. Trust me, I'm a doctor."

He prods me in the ribs. "I know. And before you start thinking it, I'm not so hung up on it _now_."

"Oh. And I thought that was just me getting you to relax a little."

He laughs. "You thought that was just _you_?"

"Well..." I shrug and give him a guilty little smile. "Maybe a _little_ you..."

"You _would_ take the credit for that!" he scoffs, shaking his head. "I'm not entirely closeted, if that's what you were thinking. I just... spent far too much time looking over my shoulder back then, worrying about who might find out, what it might mean..."

I give him another squeeze. We should probably be looking over our shoulders right now, what with the two of us sitting here on an examination couch, my arm round his shoulders, his head resting against my shoulder... and then I remember BJ's promise, and suddenly the knowledge that he's in the room just across the way makes me feel a whole lot better. "Then what happened?" I ask.

"The _war_ happened, that's what. He signed up, and... I _tried_ but..." He shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. I can already hear his voice cracking. "He shipped out in the June of 1943 to join the fighting in Europe. Five months later, I found out he was missing in action somewhere in Italy. He never came back."

I have no words to offer that. There's nothing that'll make the hurt less. So I just wrap both arms around him and hold him. He cries. I cry. It's something that happens a lot out here, and the sad thing is I don't even think anybody would bat an eyelid if they were to walk in right now. This, it seems, is acceptable. It's a crazy world we live in.

A good couple of minutes pass before he's able to sit up and break away from me. He sits there on the edge of the table, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. "You know the funny thing?" he adds, his voice rough with grief.

"What?" I can tell from his tone that 'funny' is not being used in a humorous context here.

"Nobody even told me, y'know? What had happened? I just... walked past his folks' house one day and... the curtains were drawn in the middle of the day. And I just knew. They had a funeral for him, but... there was no body. And I stood there in the back... with a bunch of other strangers. I didn't even feel like I could _cry_ , y'know?"

I nod, my hand still on his shoulder, offering what little comfort I can.

"That's the way it is," he observes, bitterly. "Wives and mothers get letters and phone calls. They get to grieve. And me? 'Oh, you're the kid he went to art class with, right? You two used to be such pals...' You spend years trying to keep a secret, but for those few weeks I wished I'd shouted it from the rooftops or something because then _maybe_ I'd have been allowed to feel _something_!" Shaking, he sniffs and wipes his face on his sleeve once more "After that, I didn't have anything to lose anymore. I went back to the enlisting officer, and I gave the doc everything I had saved up if he'd just... get me as far as basic training. Well, I guess that doctor must have been one of the greedy ones, because he got me in. After that? They stuck me behind a desk for the next nine years. And every day – every damned day – I wake up thinking if there's something, _anything_ I can do to stop somebody else going through that, then it'll be worth it. But I never have. And I never will."

His despondency breaks my heart. Gently, I reach out and wipe a tear from his cheek. "It won't bring him back, you know," I tell him softly. "And sticking around in a job that makes you _miserable_ won't either."

"The army's all I've known," he replies, shaking his head. "I couldn't go somewhere else now. I wouldn't want to." He sits back a little, so we're both reclining on the table, leaning against the wall. He turns and looks at me for a moment. "You remind me of him, you know?"

I can't help but grin at that. "Why's that?"

He shrugs. "Nothing specific. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes." I see him smirk for a second. "Smart mouth."

"You've got great taste in men, Rogers."

He chuckles, leaning against me in what could generously be called a gentle shove. "And a lot of good it's done me!" he shoots back.

"Don't speak too soon. There's a lot of us out there."

"Nah," he sighs, folding his arms and closing off again. "I couldn't do that again. Not now. Not after... I mean, to _lose_ somebody like that – somebody you _love_ – and to not be able to even _say_ it..."

"I'm so sorry..." There's not much else I can say. Words don't make it better. Words don't bring a person back.

"It's okay," he says. "I've made my choice. I won't be lonely. Nice girl, maybe a family..."

"Yeah... you said." I'm not exactly _hiding_ my cynicism, but I'm trying not to argue this time.

"It may not be passionate but it's _safe_. I can live without that kind of love. God knows I've coped until now."

"I know..." Hesitating, I look at him, all five-foot-four of sheer bravery and self-sacrifice, and think he's the most heroic human being I've never met. "It doesn't mean you don't _deserve_ it, though."

He looks back at me. Not angry this time, more... amused. There's a melancholy smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. "Yeah, well... it's nice of you to say so, but... I'm not exactly tripping over offers out here, and I'm not getting any younger, so... forgive me if I trade in my 'gay bachelor' card for a white picket fence and a mortgage–" I see his eyes flash as he looks me up and down "–but we're not all handsome six-footers with razor wit and sparkling blue eyes who can charm the pants off anything that moves."

I can't help but smile at that. I really can't. Beaming from ear to ear, it's my turn to blush and look away. "Well... thank you. I'm flattered. Really. I mean it."

"Yeah, well..." He shrugs and looks away, clasping his hands together loosely on his chest as he reclines against the wall. "I just... thought you ought to know."

I can't believe that. From where we were last night, to... this? It can't get much better than this. I should probably go before I say something to screw it all up again...

"Look, it's getting late..."

It's Steve who's talking, not me, but he's reading my mind here.

"You're right, I should go." I slip off the table as gracefully as I can manage, and he does the same. "And if I don't see you tomorrow..."

"Why would I not see you tomorrow?"

"Because I got KP duty for showing up drunk! And I'm on duty in post-op."

"Oh. Right."

"Uh... come and find me, and remind me about that prescription. For steroids. For your asthma."

"Hawkeye?"

"It's off the record, I swear. Nobody gets in trouble but me."

"Hawk?"

"Yeah?"

I pause, one hand on the door handle, about to head back out into the office. He's loitering a few feet away, looking like he's trying to say something but can't find the words. I let him think. I've really learned over the past couple of days that sometimes I really need to do that instead of trying to fill the silences.

The silence continues, and it's actually starting to make me nervous.

"What?! Look, I'm going to send you the damned medicine whether you want it or not! You can take it, you can _not_ take it, you can toss it in the trash for all I care, I just–"

"Hawkeye, shut up!"

I shut up. And he walks towards me, leans in close, raises one hand to the back of my neck and... and...

Oh, holy shit I did not see this coming! He's actually having to pull me down to his level but I'm not resisting – oh no, don't think for a second I'm resisting! – and I think he's standing on tippy-toes here and so help me because that's the most adorable thing in the world, and.. and...

And he's actually kissing me. I can't quite believe that he's kissing me. I never thought for a second it would go like this! I sure as hell didn't think on my way in here that I stood a chance in hell! But he's kissing me and he's... oh, he's being pretty forceful with it, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like that, because I _do_! My back hits the wall, and his other arm snakes around my waist. Unsure what to do with my own hands – I didn't exactly have time to prepare a battle plan here – I settle for one in the small of his back, one on his side. His back arches he deepens the kiss and I pull him just a little closer. Then he sighs against my mouth and I think I'm about to die...

When he breaks away, I'm mostly sure it's out of the need for air rather than any other reason. I know I could do with some, and I've got two healthy lungs and a larger chest cavity. Slumped against the wall, I take a deep breath, watching him with a slightly dazed expression as he steadies himself against my chest and finds his feet.

"By the way," he says, standing upright once more and adjusting his robe, "it's Grant."

I blink at him. "What?"

"My middle name," he tells me with a smile. "It's Grant."

I can't help but giggle. "Right. I'll remember that." I remove myself from the wall and compose myself. "And if you," I tell him, still a little out of breath, " _ever_ change your mind about getting married..."

He glances up at me, shy all of a sudden, like it took all his nerve to do what he just did and now there's none left. "You'll be the first to know," he says with a smirk. "I promise."

And so with hope in my heart and a spring in my step, I give him one last smile and turn to leave. And, God help me, the cheeky little fink _salutes_ me. I can't help myself but salute back...

I make my way back through post-op with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. BJ looks up from checking a patient's blood pressure. I know he can see the look on my face... I know he's gonna be curious.

I sail on past, high as a kite, bouncing along on my merry way.

"Hawk?"

As I reach the doors, I can't resist. Turning, I grin broadly and address the entirety of the post-op ward as I declare with great pride and more than a little delight: "Lieutenant Nancy Gilmore just kissed me!"

And with those words, I make my merry way out onto the compound, not before hearing the following between BJ and his patient:

"Who's Nancy Gilmore?"

"Never you mind. She's taken."


	6. Day 6

**Day 6**

To say I'm on my best behaviour on Steve's final day would be an understatement. Truth be told, I can't entirely trust myself not to find some spectacular way of putting my foot in it again, and with no chance of redeeming myself before he's due to ship back to Tokyo, I'd rather not chance it. So far I'm three-to-two in terms of good days to bad, and I don't fancy giving myself the opportunity to even that out.

I get up for reveille again, this time standing quietly like I'm supposed to instead of making faces at Steve and his bugle.

Potter eyes my bathrobe with a weary sigh. "Well, it's nice that you're up, Pierce, but would it kill you to put a uniform on one of these mornings?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sir," Rogers pipes up with a smile. "His robe's got 'USMD' embroidered on it."

I can't help but grin, and Potter glances at Rogers. "This unit's starting to rub off on you, Sergeant."

"Yes, Sir, it has."

"I think it suits you, son."

I think I agree with him.

My joy is short lived as I have to spend my morning bussing trays in the mess tent and prepping breakfast in the kitchen – oh the joys of KP duty as a punishment! – but I do get to take Steve's tray and make eyes at him in the breakfast queue. And then... that's it before I'm rushed off for morning post-op duties.

It's not an easy shift. Those complications I was half wishing for to make my shift to faster? They happen today. Sudden infection set in, and next thing I know I've got busted stitches and pus all over my hands. I spend two hours on the O.R. trying to sort the poor guy out and another forty minutes sitting by his bed cursing myself because some superstitious part of me feels like I brought this on him.

By lunchtime he seems comfortable enough, and I make a note on his chart to keep and extra close eye on him. I then force myself to move on from his bed and do the rounds I was supposed to be doing a half hour ago.

BJ rushing in takes me by surprise. "Hawk, you're wanted."

"What?" My heart jolts. I've already had one unpleasant surprise for today, and now he's about to tell me there's an unexpected chest case waiting in the lobby. "What is it?"

I go to dash outside, clipboard still in hand. But BJ stops me. "No, no, no..." He puts a hand on my arm and leans in. "Somebody wants you." He nods towards the exit. " _Nurse Gilmore_. Out in the compound. Wants to say goodbye."

Goodbye? I hadn't... even realised he'd be leaving so soon. And I've been on the O.R. for half the morning! We could have missed one another entirely!

I've had no time. No time to gather my thoughts! I don't know what I'm gonna say. Knowing me, something terrible...

BJ gently takes my clipboard. "Go say your goodbyes. I'll cover for you. Then I'm going back to bed."

I let him take it. But before I leave, I take a pencil and scribble a quick note on the back of a blank form. Folding it up into a small rectangle, I pocket it and head outside.

It's a cold day in Korea, and the wind is whipping through the foliage something awful. And there's Steve, standing in the middle of it, waiting for me.

Well, waiting for a driver, if the empty Jeep beside him is anything to go by. That means we've only got a few minutes.

I know there's no whisking him off somewhere for a repeat of last night, as if he'd even let me. Hands in pockets, I saunter over, painfully aware that we're under the watchful eye of pretty much everybody in the compound.

"You seemed kinda busy in there," he says by way of an explanation. "I went to tell you I was about to start packing up and you were taking a guy back to theatre. I didn't want to get in the way, so I went to leave a note in your tent before I left, only your bunkie woke up and the next thing I know he ran off to get you!"

"Yeah, that's BJ for you..."

"He didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, well..." I hesitate. There isn't much time to explain how much BJ knows, or that it's _okay_ that BJ knows, so I leave it at that. "So, you're shipping back to Tokyo?" I lean casually against the Jeep and he does the same.

"Looks like." Avoiding eye contact, he stares into the middle distance, into the mountains that divide us from the serious fighting.

"Think you'll be back this way again?"

"I doubt it."

I suspect he's right. Radar's six day pass was a once-in-a-lifetime fluke, and they're never gonna loan us a regular army clerk for a lousy three days.

"I come out to Seoul sometimes," he says, dripping nonchalance, "if you ever want to catch up."

I can't help but smile, turning to face him with my back to the compound so I can give him a suggestive look. "Oh, really?"

"And that's not a promise!" he adds, shooting me down with a frosty look.

"Yeah, I know..." I cancel my suggestive smile and go back to casual leaning. "Seriously, though, who the hell comes to Seoul on R&R? Everybody here's desperate to get to Tokyo!"

"I _work_ in Tokyo!" he reminds me. "Sometimes it's nice to... do something a little different."

He's got that right... My hand curls around the paper in my pocket. "Look, if you _ever_ want to get in touch..."

"Oh, _there's_ our office hero!" The Colonel's voice shatters my plan, and I step back, my heart pounding, skin perspiring. "We'll miss you!" Potter declares loudly, stepping into our little group and shaking Steve's hand. "And I think Captain Pierce will, too, won't you?"

"Something awful!" He doesn't know the half of it...

"Look, you tell Colonel Baldwin we're grateful to have had you. He always sends the best people, and you're no exception. Been a pleasure working with you."

"Thank you, Sir."

They salute, and I wave. Steve's driver has just arrived, and we're out of time. I watch Potter walk away, and I know I've got a split second before either Steve walks out of my life or I have to do something conspicuous...

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

I catch his arm, pulling him away for just a moment, and I see his eyes go wide like he thinks I'm about to kiss him, which would be tempting, but career suicide for both of us.

"I just wanted to say..."

My words clam up and my mouth feels dry.

"Well, say it quick because that's my ride!"

He laughs nervously as the driver guns the engine. My palms are starting to sweat.

"I just wanted to say... stay in touch?"

He nods. "I will." Those two little words say so much, and I wish I could hear what's on his mind but there's no time and this is no place...

"And if your... situation ever changes..."

"You'll be the first to know, I'm sure." He flushes a little, and smiles.

"And one other thing..." I lower my voice, hoping the driver can't hear us over the noise of the engine. There's no polite way to say this, and no way that doesn't sound deeply conspicuous, but I hand him the piece of paper and dive in: "If you write to me, about that – about any of this – your name is Nancy Gilmore and you're a nurse from the 121st Evac hospital in Tokyo. You got that?"

"What? Why?"

"Because the guy you've been replacing these past six days reads my mail."

Blinking, he takes the paper, and scans though the scrawl where I've made a written note of both my address and his pseudonym. "Right," he says, a little bemused. "I take it I'm supposed to memorise this and then eat it, or something?"

"Oh no, burning should be fine." I wave a hand and shrug, hoping he gets the joke.

Smiling, he pockets the paper. "I'll be in touch. I'll uh... let you know your code name when the time comes." Stepping away, he pockets my note and climbs into his Jeep, with some difficulty.

"And I'll be sure to send you that prescription!" I add, a little louder this time.

He looks back at me, and gives me a thumbs up. "Thanks, Doc!"

And this is how we part. Under the watchful eye of a driver, talking shop and looking for all the world like just another patient and another draftee doctor.

"I'll see ya around."

"Yeah, see ya."

I wave, and he smiles and nods, then turns away. It hardly seems a fitting goodbye after what we shared last night, but that's the way it goes. I turn back towards the hospital and go to walk away. Only...

" _Hawkeye_!"

His voice catches my attention, and I turn back. He's on his feet, one hand steadying himself on the windscreen, and I'm half expecting him to jump out and race over to me, leaping into my arms for one final kiss. Only... that would be a fantasy. And stupid.

He's not looking at me. He's staring upwards, back at the mountains, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, and then... he points skywards.

" _Choppers_ ," he says, squinting into the distance.

Here we go again. This is how it is out here. It never stops, no matter how many heroes throw themselves in front of bullets, they just keep sending more. He looks at me, and our eyes meet for one last night time before I wave him and his driver on. "Go," I shout over the din of the approaching helicopters. "Go on, go."

The Jeep pulls away, taking him with it, and, as he vanishes into the dust, I turn away and begin the long, hard ascent up the hill to the chopper pads. And somewhere in the distance, the guns begin to roar. Just another day at the front...


	7. Day 181

**Chapter Notes:** _This section occurs shortly after the events of '_ The Winchester Tapes _' in which Hawkeye receives a letter from 'Nurse Nancy Gilmore' announcing that she has become unengaged from her 'Navy Dentist' and invites Hawkeye for a three day weekend in Seoul, only Hawkeye is waylaid by a deluge of wounded and subsequently falls asleep in his tent. It was this episode that ultimately inspired this fic, as I decided 'Nurse Nancy Gilmore' could be a nice cover story for bisexual Hawkeye having a secret boyfriend, and so... Steve was drafted in._

* * *

 **Day 181**

I think I fell asleep. I seem to be sleeping. Or at least... horizontal. Am I in Seoul? In the Swamp? I can't even get the energy to open my eyes to find out. Part of me doesn't want to... What if I'm still in the Swamp?

Oh no... don't let me be in the Swamp! How long have I been sleeping for? This can't be happening! Six months of correspondence, of polite and cautious discussion and exploration under the cover of a pseudonym, and then finally – finally – the green flag I've been waiting and longing for this whole time, and I'm stuck here?

There's movement, somewhere near my feet. And then hands. A pair of hands grasp my shoulders and shake me.

"Steve?"

"Who the hell is Steve?" A voice somewhere to my left. Not sure who. Klinger? Sounds like Klinger.

"No idea. He's out of it." That's Beej. "Hawk, it's BJ!" See, I told you! "Gotta go see Nancy!"

I giggle at the pseudonym. It's been so long since we made her up, and she's done us proud has Nancy! "Nancy Gilmore! Good ol' Nancy..." I chuckle, rolling over a little. "No-one'll ever know..."

Oh, and now I'm being picked up! Or rather helped. BJ on one side, Klinger on the other. Oops, knocked something over there! Winchester's shouting at us now...

Outside. Cool air, bit of a breeze. Dawn, I think? I can hear birds. And a motor running. Jeep?

Clang! Ow. Yeah, feels like a Jeep.

"Is he gonna...?"

"No, no. In the back." I'm redirected by a few feet. "Hawk, can you step up? Help us out a little here?"

I open my eyes for long enough to get a footing, and BJ and Klinger provide the lift. Next thing I know, I'm sprawled in the back of the Jeep, and my bag lands beside me. The steel beneath me sways as BJ jumps in.

I'm only half conscious for much of the journey. The roads are rough and the engine is loud, but as long as I've got my cheek pressed against the grubby leather of the back seat, I'm still able to catch forty winks. I drift in and out of sleep, watching the sky flash above me between the trees as my eyelids part.

Next thing I know, BJ is shaking me awake again. "Hawk. What hotel did you say? Was it the Regency? Hawk?"

Barely awake, I nod, rubbing at my eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, the Regency."

And we're off again. The smells are different now... the light. This time, we grind to a halt under a yellow and red neon sign, and I close my eyes again to shut it out.

Oh, and now BJ's manhandling me again.

"BJ, stop it, I'm spoken for!"

He hauls me out of the Jeep and in through some doors and... oh, this lobby is nice. Or at least the carpet is. Anything else would require raising my head and I don't think I have the energy.

Somewhere through the haze of exhaustion, I can hear BJ conversing with the receptionist. There's some confusion over the name the room is booked under – yes BJ, Nancy _is_ on the guest registry, we take our cover story very seriously – and then a moment or so later he's hauling me up the stairs.

"You didn't have to do this," I tell him as he carries my bag down the hall for me, propelling me in a forward direction as I try to get my feet to co-operate.

"Sure I did," he replies. "If I didn't, I would never hear the end of it!"

"How much sleep did I get?"

"About twenty minutes – which is twenty minutes more than me."

He knocks on the door, and by the time Steve answers I'm nodding off again, my head resting on BJ's shoulder.

The door opens. I hear Steve yelp in surprise at the sight of us. And then:

"I believe this is yours. Be gentle with him. He's had a long day at the office."

Thanks, Beej. I'm shoved unceremoniously through the door. Steve clearly still doesn't know what to make of BJ – I can hear him hyperventilating and insisting he can explain – but I don't think I have it in me to interrupt. I pitch sideways onto the bed as BJ bids me a casual "see ya, Hawk!" and Steve closes the door behind him, trying desperately to get his breath back.

Me? I'm just trying to untie my shoes, and that's proving a struggle. My hand slips and I smack myself in the face.

"Was that...?" Steve gasps frantically. He falls to his knees beside me and starts tugging at my laces, having clearly decided I can't cope on my own. "Did he...? Does he...?"

"Steve? Baby?" The term of affection falls from my lips before I can stop it, and I reach out and cup his face gently in my sore, plaster-covered hand. "It's okay. I promise, it's okay."

And just like that, he relaxes. And he smiles. And it's the most beautiful thing I ever saw!

Gently removing my shoes for me, and placing them at the side of the bed, he runs his hands down my arms, settling them on my lapels. "You wore your Class As," he comments with an admiring look.

"I did." I try and grin back, but my face hurts and my eyes are closing.

His hands move from my lapels to my shirt collar. And then: "Why are you covered in plaster?"

I sigh wearily, finding myself unable to sit upright any longer. I fall back onto my elbows and address my answer to the ceiling fan. "Because I just pulled a thirty eight hour shift in the O.R. and I didn't have time to change my clothes. Or eat. Or sleep. So I think I'm gonna have to catch forty winks right here, if that's okay?"

"Sure, whatever you need..."

Sleep. _Sleep_ is what I need. Although, so help me, it's the last thing I want to do right now, because he's crawling onto the bed beside me and he's stroking my tired face with the gentlest, most soothing strokes I ever thought possible, and I don't want to close my eyes because his face looks so beautiful, I don't think he's wearing anything under that silk kimono...

I freeze, clasping his hand in my own and sitting up as a bolt of adrenaline goes through me, startling me awake for a second.

"There's something you need to know."

His eyes widen. "What? What is it?"

I feel sick. I feel stupid and selfish and I can't help but think he's going to throw me out. "I don't wanna say it. I have a feeling you're gonna judge me and... and call the whole thing off and think I'm a terrible, lecherous cad of a human being!"

He continues to stare at me. "You got engaged?" he concludes.

"No..."

"You got _married_?"

"No! Nothing like that!"

"Well, what is _it_?"

I hesitate. And suddenly... it all seems so ridiculous. With a guilty smile, I shrug and offer up the worst confession I have to make. "I didn't bring pyjamas."

Silence. He continues to stare at me. And then... he laughs. And I laugh too, because, for all my fretting, and all my convincing myself that I was bound to do _something_ to mess this one up, we've come so far in six months – even just by letter – and it's funny how all the excitement made me forget that.

He sighs again, shaking his head at me because I am, at times, a pitiable excuse for a man. "That's okay," he tells me with a gentle smile, "because if I have my way, after you've got some rest, I can guarantee you won't be needing them."

I think he just made me blush. I can feel my face flushing, even as he's bundling me into his arms. I curl up beside him on the bed, my head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"Your heart's racing..." I murmur against the naked skin just above the silk of his kimono.

"Hush now. Get some rest."

"Who can sleep after a promise like that?"

But I'm all words. I'm too exhausted for anything else. I start to drift, and the last thing I'm aware of as I surrender to the arms of Morpheus is Steve's hand gently brushing through my hair. Some things in this world are definitely worth waiting for.


End file.
